


Bless You With Love For The Road That You Go

by us_against_theworld



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Bisexual Charles Smith, Bisexual Female Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Crossdressing, Disguise, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Its all good tho fam I got u, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multi, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Canon, Scissoring, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering, everyone is a lil gay fucking fight me, except Micah bc he all Bi himself, like super slow burn, will update tags along the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21668332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/us_against_theworld/pseuds/us_against_theworld
Summary: This story follows the journey of Nicole 'Nick' Kelly, a young woman struggling to discover herself and her place in the world after a lifetime of abuse. Disguising herself as a man, her fate becomes intertwined with that of the van der Line gang shortly before the Blackwater heist
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Dutch van der Linde/his ego, Javier Escuella/Original Female Character(s), Jenny Kirk/Leonard "Lenny" Summers, Karen Jones/Sean MacGuire, Kieran Duffy & Mary-Beth Gaskill, Mary-Beth Gaskill/OFC (briefly), Original Female Character(s)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just wanted to let you know that I've went through and done a tiny bit of a rewrite. Some things just weren't working the way I wanted to and I HAD to go back and fix it to be able to move on. That's really the only part that's changed. So please bear with me and I'll hopefully be updating soon!

I hadn’t always been an outlaw. 

I’d had a mother and father, if you could call them that, a sister too. Had a law-abiding, shitty life out in the middle of bum fuck nowhere. At first, it had been just me and Ma. Then she met Pa, fell in love with him. Her pregnancy made it easy for her to overlook the absolute apathy he held for me, which quickly turned to revulsion when Rachel was born. He had _his_ child _,_ his legacy, his world; I was just a by-product of stupid teenage trysts that he was now responsible for. The first time Pa hit me I was ten. I had tried to yell over his screaming about something I wasn’t even responsible for, tried to apologize for my imagined slight. When Ma asked, I told her I rode into a tree branch while riding my horse, as instructed. Three long, mute weeks later, when Pa had went to town and my black eye had healed I’d ran to Ma, crying as I told her what really happened, begging her, _please, just get Rae, let’s go, let’s leave while he’s gone_. My stupid kid brain had thought maybe she knew and was scared to confront him, afraid for the toddler on her hip or even herself. That she would kiss my forehead and tell me she was sorry and we’d leave right that second. A not-so-small, dark part of my soul hoped she would stay and shoot him. The passive, blank face I received instead shattered my heart. The one person I thought I had in this world told me that I was lying, that Pa couldn’t have done that, that she would’ve never let something like that happen.

_You’re just jealous, just looking for attention, just trying to put a wedge between me and your father._

After that I kept to the shadows as much as possible. Stayed off the radar, did whatever I could to keep them happy. The bruises I received were kept under the neck and always given out of Ma and Rae’s sight. As Rae grew, I was terrified whenever she would talk back to Pa, but he seemed to enjoy the snark and rebellion from her. Sure, their arguments were heated but they stayed arguments, never venturing into physical. Over time I became grateful that I was the punching bag instead of her. Maybe that’s why I stayed, petrified that she would take my place should I leave. And after a lifetime of being told you’re worthless, you kinda start to believe it.

_You wouldn’t last two days on your own, where are you gonna go, you have nothing, nobody will want you._

Rachel had died first; she’d gone to town one morning to run an errand for Pa and never returned. I can still hear my mother’s screaming in my head when we found her by the road. I could only assume she had been thrown from her horse, given the angle of her neck. The lantern she had been holding on the return trip into the night had caught on the dry grass when she fell and burned her body beyond recognition. I knew it was her though, by the silver bracelet on her wrist carved delicately into roses; I had one just like it. They both now branded my wrist like a tattoo, never taken off since that day. Whether the fall was the horse’s doing was unknown but Pa shot it regardless.

Even at sixteen, she had been the perfect child. Smart as a whip, never did dumb things simply for the sake of doing them, could always be relied on, wasn’t useless or reckless or any other variation of _-less_. It wasn’t much of a wonder that Ma and Pa loved her more, though Ma would deny it to the grave. I guess technically, she did. Not that I resented Rachel for it; on the contrary, I admired her. I wanted to be like her. It wasn’t her fault Pa was such a piece of shit. Being nine years older than her, everyone always thought it was the other way around, that we should bicker and squabble constantly. But she was my best friend. Considerate where I was callous, genial where I was belligerent. She could stand up to Pa and speak her mind and not receive a fist to the stomach for her troubles. I was a coward.

Nothing was quite right after her death, even more so than it had already been. Like shoes that were a hair too tight to be comfortable or as if the planet had been tilted five feet to the left, her absence dissolved the thin string that had connected the rest of us; not that I’d ever felt like I really belonged, but no one asked me. I just no longer had a reason to pretend I cared. My mother just faded over the next year, like simply existing ate away at her soul. I hated and loved her in equal measure, try as I had over the years to just flat out hate her. But I loved her, or hated her the least. Most days, when my skin wasn’t throbbing with the tender sickly green of a new mark, I could almost pretend everything was ok. I could laugh with her and forget, just for a moment. The day she passed started the countdown of the blessed end. Pa often slept outside by my mother and sister’s graves and rarely spoke to me. Bottles littered the house; when alcohol couldn’t give him that brain-fuzzing blur that he needed, morphine packets were found hastily shoved in what his addled mind thought were hiding spots. He sold any and everything of value that wasn’t nailed down to fuel his addiction. He didn’t take his anger and pain out on me, I didn’t let him. There was no one else’s safety to fear for anymore. I danced just out of reach, which seemed to only stoke his liquor-soaked rage higher. I didn’t begrudge his grief. I didn’t even really care. I was just waiting, like a ghost in the wings. I needed to make sure he was dead, that I wasn’t going to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. The morning I found him, cold and still, the band seemed to snap from around my heart. I was _free._

The moment his cross joined the other two, I began packing anything of value, both monetary and sentimental: my sister’s drawing book, now faded with time. My step-father’s prized revolver that I had been grudgingly taught to shoot with, polished like a mirror and beautifully maintained. Ma’s gambler hat, dusty from years of sitting on the mantle. Lastly, a small photograph of my sister and me, taken six months before her death. I kept it close but rarely looked at it; the few times I did was as if a boulder had been dropped on my chest. Rae’s face was frozen in time, forever sixteen, captured in ink and paper. Beyond a few trinkets and some letters, there wasn’t much left. 

Standing in the middle of the painfully empty cabin, I drew a rattling breathe. Took in the smell of _home._ It was all I knew, dreadful as it had been for most of my life. It was unlikely I would return. Hell, it was unlikely I’d survive more than a year with only a pistol and horse to my name. Bidding a final, silent farewell, I stepped outside and firmly shut the door. A ghost of a smile curled my mouth as I headed to my beloved Mustang, Fenrir. His blue roan coat shone beautifully in the sunlight as he lifted his head to wicker softly to me. There’d been plenty of times these final months where I’d gone without so that Fenrir didn’t have to. The toll of limited food and fitful sleep wore on my body as I tiredly leaned against Fenrir’s neck.

“Well Fen,” I whispered softly into his thick mane. “Guess it’s time.”

Untying Fenrir’s reins from the hitch, I led him to the side of the cabin to say my last goodbyes. Three crosses greet me silently like soldiers at attention, each more weather-beaten than the last. Freshly turned dirt lay churned beneath the newest. Tears welled in my eyes as I searched for the words I wanted. I only spoke to the one marker, cracked and faded with time; the only one that has ever mattered to me.

“I still miss you, Rae. I hope….. I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. Who knows,” I chuckled humorlessly around wet sniffles. “Maybe I’ll see ya soon.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, my ears ring in the deafening silence that answers me.

“I love you.”

With that, I slipped the reins over Fenrir’s head, swung into the saddle, and guided his head down the dusty trail into God knows what.

It was almost surprising when I woke up every day for the next few months. I was alone, completely, truly. Not that I cared much for the company of others. It was just different. For whatever reason, I went west towards Armadillo where I had my pick of jobs between saloon girl and bath maid. I’d tried, I really, really had. But the first time some smelly, leering creep had forced my hand onto his crotch I’d yanked his balls so hard he’d still been crying when I was kicked out of the saloon. Apparently the fucker was Armadillo’s version of a big wig, too, so no one wanted anything to do with hiring me for any sort of work.

I’d never experienced true hunger before, even in those final months of living off stale bread and dried meat; never felt how a body could cave in and gnaw away at itself and even the simplest task became exhausting. Most days found me choking down Fenrir’s oatcakes or munching a carrot just to have something in my stomach, which only seemed to make my hunger that much more prominent. One sleazy man offered to buy Fen at a frankly insulting price ( _fifteen fucking dollars?!_ ) and I clocked him in the jaw. When my last few dollars ran out, I resorted to pick-pocketing and petty theft. A small part of me, buried under desperation and hunger, knew I should feel guilt in my actions; Ma would be so ashamed. But she was dead and I wasn’t planning on joining her simply to uphold her beliefs. _Her beliefs,_ my subconscious scoffed. _Her beliefs that let her child be a walking punching bag? Fuck 'em._

The first thing I ever stole was a can of peaches out of an unattended wagon; I’d never tasted anything so sweet in my life.

As my skill and confidence grew I became bolder, lifting pretty necklaces and gold watches from travelers passing through and selling them to the same shady bastard that had tried to buy Fenrir. His wary eye took on a greedy glimmer when I produced my bag of stolen finery. His prices were still offensively low but I eventually managed to scrape enough money together to afford an actual tent and a hunting knife. Camped in a tiny copse of gnarled trees a few miles outside Armadillo, everything wasn’t completely horrible for a month or two. I ate my fill of stringy desert rabbits and bought a map to begin planning my next move, enjoying freedom for the first time in my life. Then I fucked up.

My instinct had been screaming at me to walk away, but it was drowned out in the face of a fat billfold dangling out of the pocket of some rich scumbag. His swaggering and boasting about turning Armadillo into a town fit for men of his status filled my head with a mind numbing static. I was too eager, too clumsy, and his booming, irritating screech sounded the alarm. Racing to Fenrir, I charged to what had been home for the last weeks and packed my meager belongings as quickly as I could. There was nothing but desert and despair west, so east it was. Lawmen tailed me until I passed a large ranch in Hennigan’s Stead and the baying of their hounds faded over the horizon along with the sun. I kept Fenrir moving for another half day before I felt safe, too terrified to even entertain the idea of stopping. 

As I was setting up camp for the night, I was ambushed by three men in black, dingy stars pinned to their chests; a violent struggle ended with a knife to my throat as the other two dicks ransacked my meager belongings. 

_Guess I didn’t run far enough._

One I could’ve handled but not three, not when I was surprised and already exhausted from my frantic flight. The one holding me was slobbering down my neck and wrapping his hand around my long braid, using it as a rein to yank my head back.

“Don’t worry, sugar tits, we’s all gonna have a good time tonight,” he cooed in my ear in a voice he probably thought was seductive. “Then we’ll bring you back for that bounty. Mr. Cornwall don’t take too kindly to people stealing from him.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” was spit as venomously as I could manage while holding stock still, conscious of the blade skating over my pulse. The man blew a hot, smelly chuckle into my ear that turned my stomach to lead. Not again. No, no, no, please god no.

“That’s the plan, gir-”

Dick Bag number 1 had ventured too close to an ansty, pissed off Fenrir to check his saddlebags and was met with a kick that caved the side of his face in. While Dick Bags 2 and 3 stood frozen in shock, I seized my opportunity; yanking the knife held to me out of 2’s hand, I was met with a spray of blood as I sliced his jugular clean in two. A solid weight plowed into my side and I was crushed to the ground, my left hand landing awkwardly underneath me and something in it crunching painfully on impact.

“You filthy whore!” Dick Bag #3 screeched, meaty fist landing square on my nose. “You- _wack_ killed- _wack_ my- _wack_ brothers- _wack_!” A punch landed with each word, one to my cheek and three to the ribs. Crimson flew up from my throbbing nose onto the rusty star on his chest, tinging the faded metal an ugly orange.

Coughing up a wad of blood, I focused my swelling eyes on the man pinning me. “Well, maybe you fuckers shoulda left me alone!” 

That only seemed to piss him off more and my assailant began slamming my head back into the ground until warm wetness was matting my hair. Vision beginning to blur at the edges, my right hand suddenly brushed against the revolver the idiots had stupidly forgotten to take out of my holster. But I'd also forgotten it was there, so who was the real idiot here? With the last bit of energy I could muster, the revolver was shakily lifted and cocked against my assailant’s chest in one motion. The instant before pulling the trigger, I saw pure fear cloud his beady eyes.

“Give your brothers my regards.”

_CRACK_

The body thumped heavily to my side with satisfying finality. Upon trying to stand I fell back onto the blood-soaked ground, crying weakly as my cracked ribs and sprained hand made themselves known and the world spun sickeningly. I didn’t know it was possible to hurt this much. Pa had only broken bone once and even that paled in comparison to this. Every breath that pressed on my ribs was agony. My skull felt like an egg under the heel of a boot; a breath in the wrong moment and surely it would shatter. Tears carved a trail through the dust and blood on my purpling face. Maybe I should just stay here and die…

A velvet muzzle brushed against my blood-soaked hair: Fenrir. The stallion had saved my life. I couldn’t give up and leave him on his own.

I wouldn’t.

“Okay,” I gasped weakly. “Okay, I’m gettin’ up Fen, jus’ give me a second.”

After several aborted attempts, I managed to get shakily up on my knees. Peering through bruised eyelids, I grimaced at the unnatural angle my left thumb was held at. Gasping in anticipation, I grabbed my hand and yanked it back into a more normal position without stopping to think. Biting my lip drew a bead of blood as I cried pathetically in an attempt at quiet, suddenly hyper-aware of how much noise had been made in the scuffle. God only knows who might’ve heard; be just my luck that more law come galloping up to investigate. A strip torn off my skirt would have to do as a splint for now. Somehow, I managed to scale Fenrir’s flank as I praised every deity I could name for the stallion’s patience. Once I was draped over the saddle a breath I didn’t know I was holding wooshed out of my lungs, fire shooting across my ribs.

“All right, bud. Let’s go somewhere s’ not here.” Clucking softly, Fenrir took off in a smooth trot that still hurt like hell.

Looking back at the blood-soaked clearing and confirming nothing of value had been left behind, my eyes landed on the body of the man that had held the knife to me. Phantom pain ached dully in my scalp where he had yanked on my hair and a shallow cut from the knife dripped blood down my neck, staining my torn shirt. Anger sharp as bile rose in my throat and I reached for the knife sheathed to my thigh. Grasping my braid awkwardly with my tender hand, I brought the blade to the base of my neck and sawed away messily at the thick plait. I’d always held some small, selfish pride in my hair; thick and golden as the sun, I’d received compliments on it from men and women alike. When I was younger, before Pa, Ma would brush it to shining nightly before twisting it into intricate knots that I’d never been able to replicate. With a small, sad sigh I tossed the severed plait into the dirt behind me and set heels to Fenrir, sheathing my knife and tucking my mother’s hat gingerly onto my head, bracelets jingling quietly on my wrist.

Six months ago I’d never stolen, never killed two men. Six months ago I at least had one person left in the world that cared about me in some shitty, twisted way. But they were all gone and I was so, so alone. If I was gonna have live in this crap world all alone, no one was ever touching me like that again. If I had to shave my head, wear pants, bind my breasts, cut the damn things off, _fine_. So be it. Breaking masquerade law was small potatoes next to the murder anyways.


	2. Chapter 2

With the first rays of morning sun came the alien sounds and smells of a genuine city: Blackwater. Horseshoes clicked crisply on cobbled streets underneath humming power lines. The new technology had always been off putting to me, what with the way the thick lines marred the clear blue sky. I’d originally went west towards Armadillo because I had wanted to avoid the civilization that seemed to be spreading across the east like a disease. It was too crowded in places like this, too cramped and suffocating. Much like coyotes to a half rotten carcass, cities also seemed to draw the worst of humanity. But I had just killed two people the previous night. Maybe I was included in that now. A coyote that didn’t have the sense to know it was one.

Guiding Fenrir down the main street, I ducked my head low and pulled my hat further over my eyes as I noticed curious and mildly alarmed glances in my direction. I’d changed into my clean pants and baggy shirt and jacket but going by one dainty lady’s muted gasp, I hadn’t managed to scrub all the blood off my face with the water from my canteen. Tucking my injured hand deeper into the sling I’d fashioned out of the remains of my ruined skirt, I nudged Fenrir on until we came to a halt in front of the town’s only saloon. _Please god let them have a bath or a mirror and a bucket, fucking something,_ I prayed silently. Maybe I even had enough money left for some hot food. Whiskey sounded good too. My tender head had kept throbbing the entire night. 

_Then what?_ My brain pestered. _Where do I go? I’m wanted now, it’s probably dumb to even be here._

Grimacing, I decided those were all problems for a Nicole that had food in her belly; future me, if you will. Dismounting and hitching Fenrir with a fond scratch, I quietly slipped through the saloon’s swinging doors. Even at this early hour the place was teeming with activity. Working girls and barmaids wove through flailing limbs and groping hands, drunken voices warbled over the jaunty piano they were caterwauling with, beer and piss and horse sweat hung thick enough in the air to knock me on my heels. Weaving through the press of bodies and splashes of liquor I shoved my way to the bar and managed to flag down the bartender. His eyes widened slightly at my appearance as he slid in front of me, a filthy rag twisted between his equally filthy fingers.

“What can I do ya for, feller?”

Well, at least one thing I did was going right. Making an effort to deepen my voice slightly I asked above the din, “You gotta washroom or somethin’? Need t’ wash the road off, maybe get some food n’ a drink.”

Nodding, the bartender waved his dirty rag around the side of the bar towards the back.

“Bath room’s last door on the left, 50¢ for a regular bath, deluxe cost 75¢. Come back up here when you’re all done and we’ll getcha some food.”

Fishing out a dollar and slapping it on the counter, I sank into a nearby stool sticky with spilled beer. 

“Bath please, and a whiskey while they’re drawin’ it up.”

The finger of amber liquid placed in front of me could hardly be called whiskey; expensive, dirty water probably would’ve been more apt but I threw it back gratefully. The tingle it made sliding down my throat momentarily distracted from the throbbing in my hand and burning ribs. A hand landed gently on my shoulder, making me flinch even when I registered the sickly-sweet perfume cloud that accompanied it.

“Your bath’s all ready, mister,” a pretty brunette fluttered her eyelashes up at me. A blush flooded my cheeks and neck as she slipped her soft hand into mine and led me around the bar. Embarrassment set my pulse to thundering in my ears until the woman stopped in front of the bath door, turning to face me and effectively caging herself in against me and the door. I faintly noticed that her breasts were all but spilling out of her obscenely low-cut blouse.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough trip, cowboy,” she purred, brushing a slim finger butterfly soft across my bruised cheek. “Anything I can do to help?”

“N-n-no ma’am. I think I got it covered,” I stammered, face burning. Wrapping a hand lightly around the woman’s tiny waist I turned her away from the door. “Appreciate the offer, though.” 

Once it was cleared, I practically dove through the door and swiftly closed it as tittering laughter filtered from the other side.

It was amazing what a simple bath could do. Sure, my torso and face looked like a caravan had went stomping across it and my left hand was basically just a useless club on the end of my arm at the moment and every breath felt like a barbwire noose cinching ever tighter around my lungs, but my cropped hair was clean and my skin was blood free. Gotta appreciate the little things. Emerging back out into the main bar, which had calmed slightly, I took the only free seat next to a dirty blonde bulk of a man and ordered another whiskey- _leave the bottle_ -and some porridge. The noise around me had faded into a dull buzz and I was finally beginning to feel the tension in my shoulders ease when a stray arm sent my sad excuse of a breakfast flying. 

“What the _fuck_! You better be buyin' me another meal, jackass!” Exhausted and beyond irate, the words spilled out of my mouth before I registered that the offending arm belonged to the blond I’d sat down next to. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that his two companions, a young man with long, greasy hair and a silver-haired man old enough to be my grandfather seemed to be holding their breath. Not afraid, exactly; anticipating the inevitable perhaps, the calm before the storm.

“The hell’d you just say to me, you little shit? I ain’t buyin’ you crap and you’ll be lucky I don’t knock your teeth in!” the man’s too-loud voice clawed at my eardrums and sent my blood pressure skyward. Couldn’t I just enjoy a damn meal, crap that it was?

“I said, you better be buying me another meal.” Temper flaring, I plucked the half full bottle off the counter and took a large gulp. “Jackass _._ ”

“Davey-” the greasy man behind the current pain in my ass cut in, raspy voice low and even like you’d use on an enraged bull.

“Fuck off, Marston!” Davey bellowed drunkenly and shrugged off the man’s hand. “You might be a lily-livered pussy that lets your little whore carry your balls around in her skirts but I don’t take that kind of backtalk! I’m kickin’ this punk’s ass-”

Davey’s booze-soaked tirade was cut off by a spray of glass and liquor exploding across the back of his head. His unconscious form dropped to the floor like a sack of grain and in its wake sat a thick silence as we held the bar’s full attention.

"Think the first rule of ass kickin’ is not to announce it first," I huffed towards his companions, muscles tensed as I anticipated them coming at me next. 

The silence was broken by a roar of laughter from the pair; the younger man- _Marston?_ -was face down on the greasy bar, absolutely howling into the aged wood. The older man had his head thrown back, crow’s feet crinkling tight around his eyes as the raucous laughter devolved into hearty chuckles. He wiped his eyes and patted the long-haired man on the shoulder jovially. The bar patrons returned to their conversation when it became clear they weren’t getting a brawl.

“John, how’s about you take poor Davey outside to wake and sober up some? I’m gonna settle our tab with this gentleman.”

Still chuckling, John nodded in my direction and knelt down to hoist his friend’s groaning dead weight across his thin shoulder and shuffle out of the bar; which left me alone with the older man, who had moved to Davey’s vacant seat. Apologizing to the barkeep and paying for the broken bottle, I turned to find him gazing at me intently. 

“You’ll have to forgive Davey. He was drunk before we came in this morning and he loves to fight on a sober day. So, young man,” keen eyes took in my swollen face and bandaged hand, absorbing every detail as if he was going to draw them. “you got a name?”

Nerves crept back up my spine. “Nico- Nick. Nick Kelly.” I stretched out a hand.

Worn, calloused fingers grasped mine in a firm shake. “Hosea Matthews. The skinny one’s John. You local, Nick?”

“Not to Blackwater, no sir.” Fingers fiddled nervously with the bracelets on my wrist, burning like a brand. “I’m from up Tall Trees way. Ran into some trouble out Armadillo ways after I buried the last of my family so-” words fled me. So what? I was just existing? I had no plans, no destination in mind. Apparently, I’d pissed off someone big in Armadillo so it was probably just a matter of the clock running out on my luck. “So, I guess I’m just waiting.”

“For what?” Hosea asked simply. He asked it without malice or ridicule like he was genuinely curious.

“I don’t know.” I murmured, reaching up to tuck my hat further over my face as hot tears prickled behind my eyes. I would _not_ cry in front of this man. “For something to catch my eye? For my divine purpose to make itself known? An opportunity? To get robbed and murdered? Starve and die? I- I just don’t know.”

Hosea nodded silently beside me, flagging down the barkeep again and settling his bill. I also felt like he was giving me what privacy he could in such decidedly public quarters, a moment to compose myself.

“The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”

Snorting, I tipped my hat back up to peer at the older man. “That’s pretty. Got any suggestions?”

Hosea seemed to chew on his next words. “I might.”

A beat of silence followed

“Well?”

That amused Hosea for some reason, who chuckled as he looked me over once more. “I’ve met a few youngins like you in my day. A little rough around the edges but good people, by and large.”

I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“My… partner and I, we have a habit of picking up strays, as we call them. Lost, lonely souls like you, looking for their purpose.”

Niggling suspicion ate at my bones. “And in return? Surely you don’t just offer room and board without expecting _something_ back.”

Again, I seemed to have said something funny; Hosea’s chuckle was soft and warm, like a patch of grass bathed in sunlight.

“The ones that can do their part, of course. But it’s not slavery or servitude. We’re free. We’re a family. Perhaps not in the way most people use the word, but a family nonetheless.”

I smiled wistfully. “That sounds nice.”

“So?”

Confusion clouded my face. “So what?”

“You need a place to rest, kid?”

My ribs throbbed as I exhaled heavily. I’d already told the man I didn’t have anywhere better to go. Maybe he was genuinely being kind.

 _Or maybe he was just luring me to his murder cabin,_ my brain whispered sarcastically. _Easier to kidnap if no one will miss you._

“It’s not always safe,” Hosea interrupted my thoughts. “I won’t lie. We’re wanted men, living on the fringes of society. But we try to do some good in this world, leave it a little better than we found it, even if some of our methods happen to put us at odds with the law. And we look out for one another, something I think maybe you could benefit from,” he eyed my useless hand pointedly. 

Tired, hungry, and teetering on buzzed from the whiskey, my curiosity won out in the end. I’d always been decent at reading people, had to get good to know when to stay out of Pa's sight, and Hosea didn’t throw off serial killer vibes. I didn’t have anything more promising going on.

Fuck it.

Scooting back from the bar, I stood out of my chair and turned towards the door. “I think I will take you up on your offer, Mr. Matthews. Suppose the wanted should stick together.”

Beaming, Hosea stood beside me and clapped a hand on my shoulder. Standing, I realized how much shorter he was than me. If worse came to worst, I could always fight my way out and keep on running. Hand still on my shoulder, Hosea steered me across the bar and out the doors to find John and Davey, the latter propped against a water trough and gingerly rubbing his head. His nod to Hosea turned to a murderous scowl as he caught sight of me.

“What’s this fucker want, Hosea? He bothering you?” he demanded loudly.

“He’s coming with us, Davey. Think he’d be a good fit.”

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! No way this scrawny cow pile-” his tirade was interrupted by Hosea, his voice becoming surprisingly hard.

“That’s enough, Mr. Callander. I’ve always thought a good smack on the head would do you a favor but it appears I was wrong. The boy’s meeting Dutch and you’ll be lucky if I don’t tell him about all the fuss you caused. Now, mount up. We’re headed out.”

Cowed, Davey stumbled to his feet and headed towards his horse as John silently did the same, mounting a towering Hungarian Halfbred. I headed to collect Fenrir and gave him a soft scratch on the cheek before mounting and meeting my new companions as they went down the cobbled road. Hosea sat astride a gelding whose coat matched his hair and shone in the mid-morning light. I fell into stride with them easily, staying at the rear of our little party as we headed northwest out of town towards the Montana River. 

We traveled some miles in silence until John, in the lead, abruptly turned off the main road onto a worn trail that wound through the sparse woods. The nerves I had been able to tamp down earlier in the ride were blooming full force the further we went from the main road until it disappeared from sight completely. Maybe this wasn’t-

“Who’s there?!” a disembodied voice called from among the trees.

“It’s Hosea, Davey and John, Javier. And a guest.” Hosea called out in front of me.

“Welcome back, amigos!"

A man slipped out of the shadow of a towering spruce just off to my right, clutching a rifle as he sauntered up to us. He stopped beside Hosea’s silver gelding and smiled warmly at him. 

Holy hell this guy was _gorgeous._ Dark, keen eyes twinkled from beneath a neatly combed ponytail of silky black hair. Thin lips parted to take a drag from a cigarillo held between long slim fingers; the exhale of smoke curling around his sharp cheeks was deliciously strong and oddly sweet.

I noticed too late that while I’d been all but drooling over him, this new stranger had been sizing me up as well.

“You pick up another stray, Hosea?” he huffed amusedly, sharp eyes raking over me.

“Perhaps, Mr. Escuella.” the older man said elusively, nudging his gelding forward into camp. “I’ll have to let our illustrious leader make the call.”

Laughing softly, Javier stepped out of our path and waved us on, cigar held between his lips as he returned to his post. Shit, he had a fantastic ass too.

Snapping out of my ogling, I clucked Fenrir on to catch up with the other three, who had broken from the trees to emerge into a decently sized clearing. Tents and wagons filled the area, voices chattering amicably and the clatter of work permeated the air. A rather large, rosy-cheeked balding man hunched over a bloody workbench wielding a cleaver as he broke down a deer carcass. A young couple sat at a card table; dominoes abandoned in favor of giggling at whatever joke was between them. Was that? - a little boy, no more than five or six, was scattering feed to a group of chickens across the camp, squealing as a rooster flapped at him impatiently for more feed.

The more I looked the more stunned I was. A gaggle of women was circled around a washbasin, scrubbing clothes and gossiping among themselves. A potbellied man older than Hosea lay propped against a log with a half empty rum bottle in his grasp, snoring loudly. This was- well, much better than I had expected. I’ve been half dreading a group of Davey duplicates: loud, belligerent, mean drunks.

Coming to a makeshift hitching post, I dismounted next to Hosea and secured Fenrir. As I stood nervously at the edge of the camp, I felt curious eyes hone in on me from all sides. The little boy had been joined by a pretty, tired looking woman I could only assume was his mother. She held tightly to his hand and guided him to a row of tents situated behind another wagon. Guess they didn’t get many visitors.

Hosea’s hand clapped on my shoulder again, making me flinch and turn towards him.

“So, what do you think so far?”

“It’s…... It’s nice,” I said lamely. “Clean, put together.”

“I’ll let Susan know her hard work is appreciated. But come, I want you to meet someone.”

Nodding, I fell into step with Hosea, who nodded at everyone he passed and received a warm greeting in return. We came to a halt outside of one of the larger tents, one that had a pallet floor and a gramophone squeezed in the front. A beautiful woman sat on the bed inside, fiery red hair cascading over a fine emerald dress. Next to her was a man that gave the impression of this _illustrious leader_ Hosea had mentioned.

Golden buttons on a rich black vest shone in the sunlight, accentuating the crisp white shirt underneath it. Thick gold rings adorned thicker fingers that were cradling the spine of a book. Lifting his head to greet Hosea, I found sharp eyes trained on me instantly and felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. His slicked black hair curled to just above the shoulder to frame a square jaw. I didn’t absorb much else over the pounding of my heart; if I’d met this man on the road, every instinct in me would’ve been screaming _run_. He exuded too much of the barely contained violence Pa had to make me anything but afraid.

“Nick Kelly,” Hosea piped up from my elbow, forgotten until that moment, “meet Dutch van der Linde.”

Eyes widened of their own accord and my dumb mouth opened before my brain could stop it. “THE Dutch van der Linde? Dutch’s Boys?”

Dutch closed his book softly before rising and exiting the tent, stopping close enough that I leaned back on instinct. Despite being at eye level with me, the man seemed ten feet tall.

“I’m flattered that you’ve heard of me.” Rich, honey-sweetened bourbon poured over river smoothed rocks to rumble up from deep in his chest. Up close I could smell fine cologne where before I had smelled wood fire and meat. “Tell me,” Dutch said, eyes boring into mine. “What do you intend by coming here, Nick?”

Tongue fat and heavy as an oar, my mind blanked as I desperately searched for words.

“I don't know, really." God, maybe I should just get that tattooed on my damn forehead. "I'm not gonna run to the law if that's what you're askin'. Even if I did, they'd throw me in a cell before coming after you." My heart thundered in my ears like a drum. Hosea might not have ill intent but I held no doubt this man would strangle me himself if given half a reason.

A laugh bubbled up from Dutch’s gut to spill out bright and loud from his lips. Shockingly white teeth flashed in the sunlight like a smiling wolf to bare in a grin. Stepping to my side, Dutch placed a large, firm hand between my shoulder blades and corralled me and Hosea inside his tent.

“My dearest, could you give us a moment?” he addressed the redhead, who had been watching the exchange intently.

“Course, Dutch.” Her Irish lilt flowed as smoothly as the skirts she lifted between delicate fingers to sweep out of the tent, stopping only to place a kiss on the man’s cheek before exiting. Dutch resumed his previous post on the bed while Hosea offered me one of the chairs and took the other.

“Where’d you find this one, old friend?” Dutch asked bemusedly.

“Tavern in Blackwater,” he answered simply. “Knocked Davey out cold, not that it was undeserved. He reminded me of Javier when you first picked him up; skinny, alone, wandering without a purpose. Though there weren't any chickens involved.”

The two laughed at their shared joke as a blush flooded my face that I hoped Dutch was contributing to my bruises. Hosea was talking up the whole Davey thing; it’d been a cheap shot and I hadn't been confident about winning a toe to toe brawl with the man.

"The chickens are what make it a good story, Hosea! But I digress," Dutch returned his full attention to me. "Tell me, son. Can you shoot a gun, or is that pretty revolver on your hip just for looks?"

Frowning, I nodded mutely. Hadn't really been what I was expecting but ok.

"Can you hunt?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you read?"

"Yes, sir."

"You ever killed a man?"

Mouth opening and closing like a banked fish, my mind threw me back to the previous night; hot blood spraying across my face, the recoil of my revolver rattling up my arm as a bullet tore through flesh like tissue paper, bile creeping up my throat in barely contained panic, the bone deep, breath stealing _fear._

"Yes, sir," I whispered.

"Did you enjoy it?" It was asked as conversationally as one asks about the weather.

I locked eyes with Dutch in shock at the query and spit, "No."

Humming, Dutch leaned back to cross his legs and I dimly noticed the finely polished shoes he wore, more befitting someone of wealth and finery than the leader of a notorious gang camping in the woods.

Seemingly reaching a decision, Dutch planted his feet and stood to tower strikingly above me. He extended a jewel adorned hand, palm up.

"Welcome, Mr. Kelly. We shall provide you with food, shelter, and safety while you heal. Then," he smiled wickedly, crushing the hand I'd placed in his in a bone grinding shake as he hauled me to my feet, ribs twinging. "the real fun will begin." 

Chips of flat brown bored into me. Throat dry, I managed to offer a muted "Thank you, Mr. van der Linde," as he herded Hosea and me back to the tent's entrance.

"Dutch, my boy," he said, slapping me roughly on the shoulder and shooting pain down my side. "Hosea, show Nick around. Get him set up, make introductions, all that. Welcome, son. Great things await you."

And with that Dutch turned back to his tent, the book returned to his hand and the lovely Irish lady already materialized at his side. I felt like I'd just emerged from a lion's den unscathed, leftover adrenaline thumping through my veins and making my body ache as if I’d run a race. Letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, I followed Hosea as he took me further into the camp, introducing me to people whose names I quickly forgot despite my best efforts to the contrary. I was exhausted and more than a little ready to hide in my tent.

Finally, _blessedly,_ Hosea led me to the outskirts of camp just a short walk from the hitches.

“You can make your tent here, son,” the older man gestured. “Thought you’d appreciate having that stallion of yours near, got the impression you were pretty close.”

“Something like that,” I smiled as I whistled to Fenrir a quick three note tune that had him trotting over eagerly to nuzzle my pockets for treats. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Matthews, I think I’m gonna set up my kit and get some shut eye. It’s been an eventful few days.”

“Understandable. But call me Hosea. Don’t need you young whippersnappers making me feel older than I am,” he said as he turned to slip back into the heart of camp. I began rifling through my saddlebags when Hosea called me again, “Oh, and Nick? Make yourself at home. Anything you need, let me or Susan know.”

Smiling, I nodded. “Ok, Hosea. Thank you.”

_Home_

A heaviness that had weighed my heart since my sister’s passing eased a fraction. Maybe, just maybe, fate had been kind and led me to this ragtag little band so that I could have a place in the world.

Only time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, couple things:  
> 1\. Dutch has always given me a creeper vibe. Maybe it's because of the events of RDR1, maybe it's the whole pompous ass thing, I don't know. But Dutch van der Linde is a grade A fuck boy. He fine but he the Fuckest of Boys  
> 2\. Hosea is fucking difficult to write. I was trying to channel some ep. 8 Luke Skywalker for everyone's favorite grandpa  
> 3\. Yes, I know Hosea invited Nick into the gang kind of quick but there are reasons that have yet to be revealed so hold ya horses  
> 4\. While Nick is posing as a man and is also very much bisexual and making heart eyes at the ladies, she's crying inside at all these absolute DADDIES in camp  
> 5\. Think that's it? Stick around for actual action next chapter, my dudes! Thank you for reading


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I wrote /how/ much for this chapter? Happy New Year, everyone!
> 
> A jumps is a variation of a corset. It isn't as structured or restricting but can serve to flatten the chest since Nick's is sized a bit small and worn very tight. I did a lot of research for something like this because I reeeally didn’t want to go the ace bandages/strips of cloth route for binding because it's SUPER UNSAFE MY DUDES. Not that this method is all that much better but if you're gonna or want to bind, pleeease do it carefully and use the appropriate tools and techniques! There'll be a few links in the notes below for some good binders I was recommended.

_Sharp cold steel kissed delicate as a lover across my pulse, sweaty hands wrapping in my plaited hair to yank sharply. Distantly I registered Fenrir’s distressed nickering as hot breath flooded my ear. Acrid, raw panic wound around my lungs, giving each shaky inhale a burning edge. No kicking hooves came to save the day; no rescue was had as the hands holding me morphed into a frighteningly familiar touch to slither beneath my shirt tails. No. no no no no, not again plea-_

The clanging of a pot yanked me from my nightmare. Through the hammering of my pulse I could register sleep roughened voices calling to one another as sunlight leached through the fabric of my tent. Letting out a shaky sigh I collapsed back onto my bedroll and tucked into a ball, a scream clawing desperately at my throat and emerging in the form of silent, fat tears. The ghost of a touch from long, long ago left a violent urge to scratch myself bloody; but even if I peeled the skin from muscle, cut my damn arms and legs and head off, I’d still be able to feel it. Hell, I’d never stopped feeling it. The events in the desert had just brought it back to the forefront of my mind after years of being locked up tight.

 _Stop being a baby,_ a twisted, sticky part of me whispered harshly.

Keeping the mantra running in my head, I scrubbed the last of my tears away roughly and began dressing for the day. Moving and doing something was the quickest and easiest way to shake off the past. Slipping into a fitted undershirt, worn jeans and my heavy leather boots, I laced my jumps as tightly as possible without restricting movement before donning another, looser fitting button up shirt. Hat tucked over my face like a leather shield, I emerged as unobtrusively as possible into the daylight. It had been about four days since I'd been welcomed into this motley collection of vagabonds and thieves and I'd stuck to the fringes of camp, not wanting to draw much attention to myself once Hosea and John had left that same evening on some errands. The majority of the men seemed to be absent from camp as well, tents and lean-tos standing empty as hollowed trees patiently waiting for their occupants to return. I'd exchanged pleasantries with Karen, Mary Beth, Tilly, Jenny, and Miss Grimshaw, writing their names in a little corner of my notebook so as not to forget. The little boy, Jack, had been kept at a distance by his mother, Abigail. Even so, I could feel curious little eyes on me, questions practically visible in their keen depths. Whiling the days away with meager chores, caring for the horses, or plain just sitting along the trees skirting camp, I'd retired to my tent last night when the thundering of hooves trickling in over the span of a few hours announced the return of a good eight or ten souls. I wasn't exactly jumping at the opportunity to introduce myself.

The smell of roasting coffee wafted invitingly from the fire crackling merrily in the heart of camp, accompanied by the mouthwatering sound of sizzling meat. My rumbling stomach overroad my nerves as I followed the delicious smells to find a portly, red faced man attending to a pot of bubbling oatmeal. He gave me a cursory nod before gesturing to the percolator and a collection of tin mugs around the other side of the fire.

“Good morning! You must be the new kid Mr. Matthews brought in the other day, don't think we've met. Everybody calls me Pearson; camp cook and procurer of fine liquors! If you can hunt, I’ll take care of any game or pelts you bring me and if not, well,” Pearson leaned towards me conspiratorially. “You’d be among the majority!” 

The man leaned back with a huff of laughter, pleased at his own joke. I wrapped my still aching left hand around the pleasantly warm coffee cup and gave a polite nod.

“Guess I’m in the minority then, Mr. Pearson. Name’s Nick Kelly.” Pearson beamed at me, flushed cheeks crimson and round as an apple.

“Excellent!” he boomed. “Lord knows Charles must be getting sick of all these hunting trips; man is hardly in camp a week at a time, what with so many mouths to feed. And if it’s not that, he's out scouting jobs.”

Applying this new information to another faceless name, I nodded and took a sip from my mug. Bitterness ate at my throat and I had to physically stop myself from spitting the thick brew onto the ground. Jesus Christ, there were grounds coating my teeth and tongue. What heathen made this shit?

A raspy chuckle sounded over my shoulder as John sauntered to the campfire and poured himself a full cup of what was apparently passing for coffee here. He must've been among the returning parties last night.

“Think it’s official, Pearson. I’m the only one that likes your brew.” Goodness, that _voice._ It was like the man gargled thorns for breakfast, or screamed himself hoarse and never recovered.

Chuckling heartily, Pearson stirred some water into the pot and sipped from his own cup. “Glad to hear someone around here appreciates good Navy tar, Mr. Marston.”

“Tar’s an apt word for it,” I snorted, wrapping both hands around the hot metal of my cup to chase away the last of the morning's chill.

Seemingly used to being the brunt of jokes, Pearson merely laughed far too merrily for the early hour and began carving off hunks of cooked meat and doling out bowls of oatmeal before nudging it towards John and me. As we dug in the rest of the camp seemed to come alive at the smell of food. The girls, forever traveling in a pack, joined us at the fire and gathered their own plates, pointedly avoiding the percolator. They sat across from me, making sly attempts at staring while maintaining their soft chatter. Apart from initial introductions and asking a question here or there, I'd largely avoided small talk. One of them, a pretty blonde with ringlets spilling over her shoulders and exposed cleavage, grinned widely at me and gave a salacious wink. I think that was Karen? Nervously looking for something to do, I took a sip from my cup, remembering too late the mess waiting in it for me as I subtly spit it back out. That sent the girls to tittering across the fire as more people trickled in from their bedrolls, eyes crusted with sleep and bellies rumbling. Javier strode across camp and gave me a wink and a nod before sitting next to Tilly, saying something in his smooth, low voice that had her laughing softly. He'd been very nice, answering any questions I had or pointing me in the right direction without pressing for conversation. I'd enjoyed listening to the strum of his guitar these past few nights, soft notes floating on the breeze gentler than any songbird.

A bear of a man trailed him, beakish nose and receding hairline giving him the impression of a hulking caveman. Next came a young man, younger than me even. His tired eyes and messy, tight curls suggested he'd been on the road as well and had arrived back the previous night.

Beginning to feel a bit crowded, I picked up my plate with the intention of running to hide amongst the horses when I practically ran into, out of the twenty-odd people in this camp, Davey. Lovely. I'd managed to avoid him in the past few days.

"You still here then, ya little prick?" He huffed, stomping past me to grab a plate and plop down on John's other side. Irritation flamed in my stomach; it was too early for his obnoxiously loud voice.

"Sure am, Davey," I smiled sweetly around a spoonful of bland oats. "How's the head?"

Davey's snarling reply was cut off by a hand slapping across his chest, the person attached to it grinning good-naturedly. A brunette bearing a striking resemblance to Davey sat next to him, stealing a bit of meat off his plate before ribbing him lightly.

"Take it easy, Davey. Boy got you, it happens to the best 'o us!" The man shifted his attention to me. "Mac Callander. Sadly related to this drunkard."

"Nick Kelly," I nodded to Mac, who pointedly ignored Davey's indignant sputtering.

"A Kelly, huh? Oi, MacGuire!" Mac bellowed over his shoulder. "We gots an Irish feller for you to pester!" 

A shock of red hair emerged from a tent not far from the fire, wide blue eyes seeming to hone onto me instantly. A skinny stick of a man followed his hair out of the tent, dirty bowler hat held between his pale hands as he strode eagerly towards the gathering

"Oh, I ain't-" I frantically tried to signal to Mac, who seemed to only smile at my impending doom. A long-fingered, boney hand slung around my shoulder and pulled me back to sitting as the redhead squeezed himself between me and John. I cringed away from the touch but the man was either painfully oblivious or just ignoring my discomfort.

"Finally, a brother from the homeland among this sea of Englishmen! Sean MacGuire's the name. Gunslinger, smooth talker, why, these fellers'd be dead a hundred times over without ole Sean watchin' their backs! You's gotta first name, Kelly?"

"Uh. Nick."

"Nicholas!" Sean beamed at me and clasped my shoulder tighter. "Y'know, I once knew a feller named Nicholas. Friend of me Da-" 

A collective groan emerged from everyone within earshot. 

"No, no, _no._ "

"Don't get him started!"

"We done heard your Da's life fuckin’ story, Sean."

Apparently this Sean fellow wasn’t shy about sharing. Smirking softly at the assembled crowd’s reaction I finally managed to get a word in.

“Hate to disappoint, Sean, but I never set foot in the motherland. My ma was from round Black Valley, left when she was fifteen.”

Grinning widely, Sean shook my shoulder again. “Black Valley! I hail from Cork, practically makes us cousins! Tuigeann tú mé?”

“Kinda,” I shrugged. Ma had taught me a few phrases and words but I’d never been able to grasp the words as they rolled off her tongue. That and I was more interested in being a shitty kid, dirtying my clothes by scaling trees and rolling in the mud looking for worms. “I know quite a few songs but I couldn’t tell you what half of it means.”

“Ah, well. Beggars and choosers,” Sean commiserated. “What about _your_ da? He not teach you any?”

Again I shrugged, trying to appear casual even as I was wildly conscious of the ears listening intently, despite their best efforts to otherwise.

“Never met him, never asked after him really. Ma married another man after gettin' pregnant when I was ‘bout eight, only Pa I ever knew. Dead now." And that’s all I had to say in front of such an attentive audience.

I'd abandoned my empty plate at some point in favor of fiddling with my bracelets. It had been years, if ever since I'd reflected on those early days. We'd first met Pa out near Roanoke Ridge. Ma had been washing our few clothes in the river when he'd appeared like a ghost in the night. One second we were alone, and then we never were again. Pa sort of ran an unofficial halfway house in those days, open for freedmen, Natives fleeing the government, immigrants like my mother and I. He'd offered us shelter and the rest was history. He'd been stiffly polite to me but from the moment my sister was born, it was obvious I was nothing but a blight on his picture-perfect family. Sighing, I yanked myself out of my thought train to find Sean already on a bend about- what was he yammering about?

"-needs to lighten up! Ol' Sour Face Morgan's got the sulking department covered for all o’ us. I once saw him get all broody after-"

"Well, it's nice to meet you Sean," I cut off the redhead while I could, afraid of it being my only chance. "But I think I'mma go see what chores need doing 'round here." 

Not waiting for an answer, I ducked under the Irishman's arm and made a beeline for the herd of horses loosely corralled by a flimsy makeshift rope paddock. Not that any of these horses were eager to make a break. They all were beautifully taken care of as I'd discovered, coats shining, hooves neatly trimmed and shod, manes and tails combed finely. I ducked past The Count in search of Fenrir and found the stallion grazing next to a gorgeous Standardbred mare, hindquarters bumping together as they shifted their weight. Given I hadn't seen her before this moment, she must belong to someone that'd rode back in last night. Clicking as I approached, he lifted his head with an eager nicker, leaving his companion to trot over and sniff over my shirt for the mint I'd brought him. As he crunched away happily, I moved around to comb and braid designs into his thick mane, finding peace in the quiet swishing of tails and repetitive tearing of tender grass. 

I looked around, taking in the new additions to the herd; a stout bay Ardennes, a lovely blanket Appaloosa, an unsettling looking bald-faced Trotter with piercing blue eyes. The braiding took longer than normal and wasn’t nearly as neat with my hand being so clumsy still. Losing time in the ease of the herd, undoing and retrying strands I wasn't happy with, I dimly registered the continuous chatter back in the heart of camp. These people seemed nice enough, what few I'd talked to. They didn't seem to treat the women like property either, or shiny playthings taken out of storage for their amusement. They also seemed to keep them confined to camp though, washing and sewing and cleaning. A part of me rebelled at the notion, despite not even being perceived as a woman currently. Like hell I'd stay here to clean and wash my life away. 

Too busy taking affront with these imagined slights, I missed the sound of footsteps drawing closer to the paddock corner I'd tucked into. I didn't, couldn't miss the soft rumbling voice calling to the mare I'd found Fen next to, nor the large figure approaching her, face obscured by the low brim of a worn leather hat.

"There's my pretty girl. How's that cut looking, Bo? I know Charles made that poultice for me, patched it up real nice." 

Where Dutch's deep timbre had been imposing and threatening, this man was all honey-sweetened tea and fresh-cut hay, fragrant and thick. One of his hands reached to stroke behind the mare's ear in an intimate, familiar motion while the other fished a palmful of sugar cubes from his coat pocket, letting her crunch to her heart's content before stooping down to inspect a bandage around her forearm I hadn't noticed before. Damn, he had a nice ass too.

Crouching behind Fenrir and outright spying now I watched as the man whispered sweetly to the mare for a few more minutes, voice too deep and low to really make out the words. He unwrapped the bandage to inspect a nasty looking cut slathered in a clay reddened poultice before gingerly replacing the wrap with a tenderness I wouldn’t have imagined his thick, scarred hands capable of. With a final pat to her neck, the man smoothed the mare’s long forelock and strode back to camp.

Having long since finished my ministrations while watching the nameless man, I hung around a few minutes more to give him time to clear out from near the paddock, giving some of the other horses a scratch or pat on the flank as I went.

"Mr. Kelly! I require you for a minute!" Dutch called right as I exited the paddock. Stomach flipping on the walk over, I found him leaning casually in a small chair by his tent, the man I'd just been spying on at his side like a surly bodyguard or maybe a rowdy hound brought reluctantly to heel. Startlingly blue eyes honed in on me from a scruffy, ruggedly handsome face partially obscured by his hat. The redhead, Molly, sat inside the tent, head buried in her embroidery hoop.

"Excellent!" Dutch clapped. "Nick, this is Arthur Morgan. My right hand, practically my son. Outside of camp or on a job, his word carries the same weight as mine. Understood?" I nodded sharply, stealing a glance at Arthur. Stormy blue eyes bored back into mine, all traces of the tenderness not meant for prying eyes gone. 

"Do you have any matters of pressing importance to attend today, son?"

"Well," Arthur drawled, scratching his scruffy chin. "Hosea mentioned somethin' last night 'bout a real estate scam he's lookin' into, thinks we could make a pretty penny off o' it. Was gonna ask if he needed a hand."

Dutch waved dismissively. “That can wait until later. I need you to make sure our newest addition knows which end of a gun to hold.”

“But Hosea-”

“I’ll let Hosea know you are otherwise occupied,” Dutch cut in firmly. “Go talk to Javier, he usually has something cooking.”

“Y’want me to take the boy out on a job? Though you just wanted me to take him shootin'!” Arthur huffed incredulously. “Lookit his hand all wrapped up, I might s’well ask Uncle to come too!”

Unsure of this Uncle person’s identity but still getting the impression it was vaguely insulting, I scoffed at the barb.

“Not that anybody asked me, but my hand ain’t broke. Hurts a little but still works,” I spit. “‘Sides, I don’t need two hands to hold a revolver.”

Arthur bristled at that, hackles coming up as the hound bared his teeth.

“You ever held someone at gunpoint, _boy?_ You ever even shot someone?”

“I can take you out toward Hennigan’s Stead, let you meet what’s left of ‘em,” I snarled. Was this really the same person I’d been spying on in the paddock? Because he was being a real asshole.

“Enough!” Dutch boomed. “Go talk to Javier, Arthur. I ain’t speakin’ on the matter no more.”

With that Dutch leaned back in his chair and flipped open a book, pointedly ignoring the pair of us, Arthur glaring daggers at me. He brushed past me with a huffed _c’mon_ and beelined for Javier, who was sitting on a felled tree sharpening a wicked looking set of throwing knives.

“Buenos días, Arthur, Nick. Something I can help you with?”

‘Mornin’ Javier. Dutch’s wantin’ me to see how the new kid handles hisself, said you might have a lead on somethin'.” 

Tucking the knives back into a holster on his belt, Javier nodded slowly, thinking.

"I got a tip on a group of highwaymen, over near Aurora Basin. Shouldn't be more than six or seven of them, from my info. Word is they just hit a stagecoach belonging to some big banker _,_ so should be a decent haul."

Arthur nodded curtly. "Sounds good. Pack what you need, meet me at the horses in twenty." And with that, he turned sharply on his heel, still resolutely ignoring me. Javier looked at me quizzically, one eyebrow drawn up in a question of _what's his problem?_ Shrugging, I turned as well to pack my saddlebags, not that they'd ever really been unpacked. Hoisting my bags up, I spotted Arthur over by the paddock standing, well, _very_ close to a man with thick black hair cascading down his back to hang over yet another marvelous ass. Were most of the people in this gang just weirdly attractive? What the hell?

“Y’sure ya don’t mind, Charles? I’d take Bo but-” the soft lilt was back in his voice, coloring his words sweet and pink as a coneflower. Arthur had removed his hat to talk to this man, twiddling it in one hand and scuffing his boot in the dirt

“Course not, Arthur. She needs time to heal or that cut could turn into something nasty. Taima will do fine.” 

“Ah, she jus’ likes all the sweets I bring her.”

“That too,” the dark-haired man huffed out an amused breath as he leaned a little closer. “That makes two of us.”

Oh

_Oh_

Suddenly feeling like I was massively intruding, I stomped through the foliage far louder than necessary and cleared my throat. The pair took a few casual steps back from each other, unhurried and relaxed as if they had only just noticed their intimate proximity. Arthur glared daggers at me as he jammed his hat back on, perhaps still irritated at this whole ordeal, perhaps because I’d interrupted his canoodling.

The dark-haired man turned to face me, face impassive but not unkind. Wispy loose hairs framed a strong, square jaw and reached down to brush a lovely blue beaded necklace clasped around his throat. 

“Charles Smith, Nick Kelly,” Arthur rushed through introductions, turning to pat the cheek of the Appaloosa I’d spotted earlier. “Boy’s the reason I needed Taima, Dutch wants to see how he does on a job.”

Charles extended a hand that dwarfed mine as I shook it, grip light but firm, speaking of powerful strength kept under wraps until needed. Up close I realized the height of him, towering over me by nearly half a foot. 

“Pleasure,” he rumbled lowly, voice pitched into a vibrating baritone. “Don’t mind Arthur, he’s crabby on a good day.”

Charles was only proving my theory about the people in this gang being strangely attractive because _goddamn_. He still hadn’t let go of my hand, calluses and scars pulling on my palm. He was warm too, heat practically radiating off his body. An ugly snort came from behind Charles as he finally released my hand.

“Crabby. I can show ya crabby, Mr. Smith, ‘cause this ain’t it.”

Turning his back to me again, Charles did _something_ that made Arthur scoff and duck to hide beneath his hat. Chuckling lowly, Charles patted him firmly on the back before turning to head into camp.

“Take care of my horse!” he called over his shoulder, broad form disappearing between canvas and tent poles.

Snorting again, Arthur turned to find me standing in the same spot, aimlessly shifting my weight from foot to foot.

“Well, whatcha waitin’ for?” he grumbled, some of the hostility from earlier leaked out of his voice. “Go on, go saddle up!”

Ducking my head, I brushed past him to scurry over to Fenrir, who was still grazing next to Arthur’s mare. Tacking up quickly, I mounted and led him to the mouth of the paddock and found him and Javier hitched side by side, giving their tack a final once over and checking supplies. Javier turned from lashing a rifle to his saddle and whistled lowly, eyes raking over Fenrir.

“Nice horse, compadre. Where’d you find that beauty?”

“Had him since he was a colt. He was a bit of a handful for the dumbass that had him and I uh, persuaded him to hand him over.”

A man that had taken shelter with my family had come clomping in on Fenrir one summer afternoon, running from the law after trying to hold up a bank for money for his ailing wife. The man had meant well but gods above he was stupid, slapping a saddle on the back of a barely year old green broke Mustang and dogging him halfway across New Austin; it was a miracle Fen hadn’t suffered any permanent back damage, or simply bucked the moron off and killed him. For some mysterious reason, Pa had allowed me to keep him.

Nodding politely, I eyed the Paint Javier was climbing onto. “He seems lovely,” I offered lamely.

Javier smiled softly, reaching down to pat the gelding’s neck fondly.

“Boaz has never failed me. He’s been my friend since before I had friends in this country.”

On Javier’s other side, Arthur swung himself into his borrowed saddle with ease.

“All right, all right, we can talk on the road. Javier, lead the way.” 

Taking point, Javier led us out of camp westward with Arthur bringing up the rear. I largely kept quiet, listening to my companion’s chat amicably about various comings and goings of the gang. We’d been riding at a steady trot for nearly an hour when a clatter of hooves alerted us to a newcomer quickly approaching. Swinging the horses around, Arthur and Javier placed a hand on their revolvers, preparing for the worst. When a bald masked Trotter rounded the corner, Arthur shoved his revolver back into the holster and spun Taima back around, groaning loudly. Javier kept his vigil, eyes narrowed distastefully.

“What the hell’s that cabróndoing here?” he spit.

“Nosin’ where he ain’t wanted as usual, I’d imagine,” Arthur sighed dejectedly, tucking his hat lower over his face as the Trotter came to a stop beside him. Astride him sat a man with shoulder length, greasy blonde hair, flop hat obscuring most of his face until he tilted it back, eyeing me with interest.

“Now you fellers was gonna leave me out of the fun? You know I love a good robbery, even more so when I can watch a youngblood fail miserably.” The man bared his teeth in some twisted version of a smile, if you called a snarling wolf smiling.

“Well,” Arthur sighed irritably, nudging his horse forward and placing himself between me and Javier, obviously trying to shake the man. “Maybe that’s your clue Micah, that we didn’t want you here. Course, you coulda jus’ asked and I’da told ya you weren’t invited.”

“You wound me, Arthur!” Micah placed one hand on his chest dramatically. “I was only thinkin’ of you boys, having to take on those highwaymen yourselves and lug this greenhorn’s dead body back to camp. Besides, I wanted dibs on his horse.”

A growl flew unbidden from my throat. “You touch my fuckin’ horse and it’ll be the last goddamn thing you do,” I snapped at him. This only seemed to encourage Micah, who smiled wider.

“Ooh, he’s feisty! You got a name, boy?”

“Nick,” I said curtly.

“Nick. Good to know. I might even scratch it on your cross tonight.”

Rolling my eyes, I clucked Fenrir on to ride abreast with Arthur, something to get away from this asshole; the best thing to do with men like him was ignore them, not feed their ego by arguing.

We continued westward for another few hours, Micah interjecting seemingly random drivel followed by Arthur telling him to shut the fuck up.

Arriving at the eastern shore of Aurora Basin, Javier advised ditching the horses and continuing on foot. As the other three were organizing their weapons, I stood awkwardly off to the side with just my revolver.

‘S’that all you got?” Arthur asked incredulously. When I tapped the hunting knife strapped to my thigh, he sighed long sufferingly before digging in his saddlebags.

“Here. I like these guns so don’t lose ‘em,” he said, tossing me a carbine repeater and a sawed-off shotgun, the blackened steel barrels of both carved and inlaid with delicate silver scrollwork.

“Thank you,” I said softly, tucking the shotgun into my belt and cradling the carbine.

“Thank me by not dyin’ or gettin’ one of us killed,” he groused. “Javier, where to?”

Javier led us even further westward along the bank of the Basin, towards the small clearing tucked beneath the towering Grizzlies. With a start, I realized how close we were to what had been home my entire life. I shook my head before I could go down that rabbit hole.

 _Focus,_ my brain whispered. _Prove Arthur and this Micah prick wrong._

Once we’d ventured deeper into the trees, water hidden by the branches, a scream split through the air sharp as any gunshot. Flinching, we all ducked lower and waited with bated breath. Soft, muted crying drifted on the breeze to us, causing Arthur and Javier to exchange pinched, worried looks. We followed the sound carefully, now hyper aware of our surroundings. As our little band crested a small hill we came upon the source of the noises; three grass huts sat tucked against a rocky hillside. About ten yards from our perch laid two bodies, men long shot and rotting, most of their flesh having been picked away by scavengers. Another scream pierced the air and a woman was flung out of one of the huts, naked as a jaybird and sporting a bloody lip. When she made a mad dash towards the hill the four of us were perched on, a stocky dark-haired man lifted her bodily round the waist and flung her back on the ground, cackling as she scrambled back to her feet. Catching her by the ankle, the man dragged her back into the hut she’d been ejected from, the sounds of fists on flesh carrying across the clearing.

Retreating back over the hill, I turned to find Arthur and Javier whispering to one another with wide, worried eyes; to my left, I noticed Micah appeared almost bored, indifferent to the woman not forty yards from us.

“So?” I whispered. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan? We didn’t exactly _plan_ for somethin’ like this!” Arthur snipped.

“Could wait until nightfall, let them tire themselves out,” Micah said. The urge to shoot him was growing with every word that came from his mouth.

Yet another wail came, cutting my eardrums to dig into my brain. Bile rose acrid and hot in the back of my throat, phantom pains feathering over my skin, old wounds brought sharply back into the present by the mystery woman’s screaming. Sneering at the man, I unholstered my borrowed shotgun and checked it was loaded before doing the same with the carbine.

“The fuck we are. Arthur," I turned, finding him crouched to my left, Javier directly across from me, nimble fingers caressing over the blades in his belt. "This was supposed to be about me proving myself, right?"

Reluctantly, Arthur nodded.

"You don't have a plan. Let me take point on this, please."

The older man chewed on the inside of his cheek a moment, fingers fiddling with the brim of his hat almost subconsciously. Finally, his eyes met mine, stormy oceans churning in the pounding rain.

"What're ya thinkin'?"

It took twenty long minutes for Javier, Arthur, and me to slip silently around to the far side of the little clearing. Javier and I crept through the foliage with ease, the flutter of leaves the only indicator of our passing. Arthur fared a little worse, snapping the occasional twig and rustling branches when he tried to hurry and catch up, cursing lowly when he finally did. We waited with bated breath, able to take in the scene better at close range. Two men sat by a small fire in the center of the clearing passing a bottle of dark liquor between themselves and laughing raucously, a brightly colored poncho slipping off one's shoulder. Another man stood at the mouth of the clearing, shoulders squared and rifle held at the ready as he paced easily, wide hat shielding his face from the bright sun. There were at least two more in the center hut, along with the woman whose screaming had faded to a sharp whimper, like a beaten dog. 

"Del Lobos," Javier breathed over my shoulder. "Mierda."

I'd heard of this gang in hushed, frightened whispers from people seeking refuge at my old home. They were ruthless and cruel, taking what they pleased and rarely leaving survivors. If anything this steeled my resolve.

“Thought you said it was jus’ highwaymen?” Arthur grumbled.

“I _said_ my intel said-”

BANG

BANG BANG

A trio of shots rang across the valley, courtesy of Micah across the way, bringing three additional men pouring out of the hut as the two by the fire scrambled to their feet. Six total. Nodding to the pair of us, Arthur slipped his knife from his belt and gestured for me to do the same. Javier unsheathed his throwing knives, their delicate clinking going unnoticed over the loud arguing of the men in the clearing as they all picked up weapons and fanned out along the tree line while one headed quickly to the source of the shooting. We split up, each silently taking down a Lobo with a knife to the back of the skull. A small part of my subconscious, screaming to get out, lurched sickeningly at how my blade split the man's skin like paper, hot blood pouring across my knuckles. Now wasn’t the time for a moral debate though. Javier was creeping adjacent to me to take down the final two when another gunshot cracked out, sending the remaining birds fluttering away and giving us the window to take our targets down. When the last gurgling rasp stopped, all three of us crouched, frozen, with bated breath as the woman's crying seemed to filter back into focus over my pounding pulse. The crunching of branches and huffing breaths gave way to Micah, covered in far more blood than should've been necessary to take down one man. He raised his arms at the three barrels aimed towards him in mock surrender.

"It’s lil old me, fellers."

His words seemed to break some sort of spell and a woosh of air escaped my lungs as we three stood straight. Arthur fell into step beside me as we made for the center hut, slapping me on the back.

"Not bad, kid, not bad a-"

A glint of steel in the darkness of the hut caught my eye. Without thinking I threw my entire weight into Arthur's side, crying out when fire lashed quick as lightning from my forehead, down over my nose, and carving into my cheek. Apparently we'd missed a man, hiding in the hut to watch over their prisoner. He fell without ceremony as Javier sent a throwing knife through his eye whip quick, metal thunking sickeningly against the back of his skull. 

Crimson sheeted over my eyes, giving the world a red tint as I leaned heavily against Arthur's side, coppery tang hitting my lips and dripping onto his jacket. The ground seemed unsteady as quicksand while two large hands propped me up.

"Shit, _shit_! Hey, kid, Nick, look at me!"

Slowly, my eyes managed to focus through the bloody haze to find Arthur, brows furrowed and face pinched tightly in concern.

"I'm- I- I'm ok, jus' a little dizzy."

Stinging pain brought the world back into sharper focus as Arthur wiped a whiskey-soaked bandanna along my cut face, cleaning the wounds and soaking up what blood he could. Gasping, I locked a hand around his wrist and pushed the cloth away, mind spinning as I tried to collect my thoughts.

"That's gonna need stitches," he grumbled, dropping the cloth in my hand and helping me to my feet. Javier ducked around to stand by Arthur, taking in my face and whistling softly. 

"That's gonna be a hell of a scar, compadre _."_

"Well, I've heard the ladies love scars," I chuckled dryly, the action pulling at the ragged edges of my wounds and setting fresh blood to seeping down my neck. "Can we get what we came for and go?"

Ducking into the low hut, the four of us found the woman we'd seen earlier crammed into a corner and making herself as small as possible. She seemed like an Indian woman by the low lantern light. Waist-length black hair curtained around her curled limbs, framing large eyes still wet with unshed tears. Bruises and cuts crisscrossed her skin like a twisted mural. Arthur stepped forward easily, a man approaching a spooked horse. I was reminded of the Arthur I'd first seen this morning, all soft lines and gentle hands and sweet words. Micah, apparently bored, huffed about going to loot the rest of the clearing and returned outside. 

"Easy, miss. We ain't here to hurt ya, we just wanna help. Can you understand me?" A quick jerk of the woman's head was all the reply he got. "What's your name?"

"Adoette," she whispered softly. "They- my husband, my brother, they-" fresh tears coursed down her cheeks, her limbs drawing in tighter while painful sobs wracked her thin frame. Slowly, carefully, Arthur removed his jacket and draped it over Adoette's heaving shoulders, which only seemed to make her cry harder. 

"I'm so, so sorry, miss. I know you're hurtin' and you've been through hell, but we need to get you outta here, in case more o' those bastards show. This," he waved a hand behind him, "is Nick and Javier. They're gonna help, ok?" 

Sniffling, Adoette nodded mutely and haltingly took Arthur's offered hand to stand unsteadily. She promptly buried her face against Arthur's chest, crying harder than ever as he awkwardly patted her shoulder. 

"You two," he hissed quietly. "Go clean up outside. Poor woman don't need to see all that.”

Nodding, we stepped back into the blinding sun and set to dragging the fresh bodies into the tree line, out of sight. It was slow going with Javier having to help me, still dizzy and holding my makeshift bandage to my face. Javier found a discarded blanket and we silently covered the bodies of Adoette’s fallen family. Micah was unceremoniously rummaging through the remaining huts as well as the Lobos belonging, crowing happily when he uncovered a lockbox stuffed with bearer bonds, cash, and gold coin.

The horses came cantering into the clearing after whistling for them and I leaned heavily against Fenrir’s side. Gingerly withdrawing the cloth pressed to my face, I found most of the cuts had clotted. As I tucked Arthur’s bandanna into my saddlebags, intent on washing it, I had the forethought to draw out a loose shirt and pants for Adoette; she seemed roughly my size, if not a bit thinner.

Dressed in her donated clothes, Adoette refused our offer of escorting her to town.

“Thank you but…. I want to be alone and I can’t stay here anymore.”

And she was gone, taking off westward with a bag of supplies pilfered from the Lobos belongings and a wad of cash Arthur had shoved in her bag despite her, and Micah’s, protests.

Splitting the haul- _holy fucking fuck a hundred dollars?_ \- we all mounted up and headed silently toward Blackwater, Arthur insisting I needed to visit the doctor for stitches and Micah insisting on a drink.

“So,” I broke the silence of the last few hours. “Are most jobs like that?” Dried blood crackled and flaked off my cheek as I spoke, fluttering away in the breeze like morbid, coppery butterflies.

Arthur chuckled dryly, no humor in his voice.

“No. Usually it’s quick, clean, in ‘n out. This was…... different.”

“Yeah, no joke,” Javier jibed.

“Don’t know what you boys are belly-achin’ about. This was a good haul, boss’ll be happy.”

“God just shut the hell up, Micah,” Arthur retorted, clearly in no mood for the man’s callousness.

Surprisingly, the man fell quiet, keeping it until we rode down the main strip of Blackwater, the sun at our backs and washing the glass storefronts in an orange sheen. Was I always going to enter this town bloody and bruised?

As we hitched the horses in front of the saloon, I turned to give Arthur his guns back.

“Guess you didn’t need ‘em after all,” he chuckled wryly.

“No,” I sighed. “But I think I’ma take this money and get me some weapons of my own. You boys still be here?” I nodded towards Micah and Javier’s retreating backs passing through the saloon’s swinging doors.

“I reckon someone’s gotta make sure they don’t burn the place down.” Arthur gave me what felt like the first genuine smile I’d seen aimed at me, lips twisted crookedly and eyes glimmering. “You go get those cuts looked at, alright? And kid!” he called as I began to turn away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Thanks fer, fer savin’ my hide.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

Smiling, I ducked my head and headed for the doctors, where I spent a very painful half hour getting my face cleaned and closed up; I’d been fortunate, he said, only needing stitches along the gash across my cheek. The rest he had simply flushed and glued shut. Next was the gunsmith. I’d always held a quiet appreciation for all kinds of weapons, the sleek, deadly beauty of the metal and wood. My money was burning a hole in my pocket as I flipped through the catalogue before finally settling on a lovely ash bow stained a deep, almost black burgundy, a sawed-off shotgun, a secondhand Springfield rifle, and ammo for all my purchases plus some throwing knives. I really, _really_ wanted Javier to show me how to use them. 

After stowing my purchases on Fenrir and leaving him with an oatcake to munch on, I stepped reluctantly into the saloon to find the debauchery in full swing. The jaunty piano man was practically dancing as he played a bright tune on the keys. Men laughed loudly and spilled half-full drinks onto the skirts of working girls sitting on their laps. Eager for a drink and maybe a little high on the morphine powder the doctor had given me, I elbowed through the crowd to find Arthur, Javier, and Micah huddled at a table in the corner, drinks in hand and a girl hanging off their shoulders. The brunette that had shown me to the baths room before was there, occupying a chair next to Arthur, who was trying desperately to brush her off. When I sat in a vacant chair her eyes lit onto me, peeling herself from Arthur to slink up next to me.

“There he is!” Javier exclaimed loudly. A petite blonde settled across his lap as he downed a shot. “Charity, Layla, Amber, this is Nick!”

The brunette who had sidled up to me, Amber, wrapped one slim arm behind my neck to brush along the unmarred side of my face.

“I remember you, sugar,” she sighed into my neck. “You knocked out that blonde bastard last week. What was his name? Derrick? Devon?”

“Davey,” I whispered, cheeks flushing.

A surprised cough sounded from my side, Arthur spluttering around his sip of beer.

“Davey? _You_ knocked out Davey?”

I could feel the heat pouring off my face, blazing against the touch of Amber’s cool fingers.

“He knocked over my breakfast ‘n it was the first time I’d ate in three days,” I shrugged. “Then he wouldn’t shut the fuck up, so I smacked him over the head with a whiskey bottle.”

Peals of laughter exploded from the table, Arthur's cheeks turning pink and Javier still cackling merrily despite having already heard the story. Across from me, Micah was laughing too, clutching a curvy redhead and eyeing me uncomfortably. His gaze flickered back and forth between me and Amber, who had slipped into my lap at some point, giving me an eyeful of the swell of her ample cleavage. Blood pounded hot and heavy in my ears as I kept one hand politely on the small of her back, the other fiddling with a stray beer cap. 

"Tell me, boy. You ever fucked a girl?" Micah asked as casually as one asks about the weather, or directions to a destination.

"No," I lied automatically, a lifetime of hiding in the shadows still a reflex I couldn't shake. _You're a guy now, stupid, you can own up to it._ I had my share of bed partners before, both men and women; why enjoy only half of life's pleasures? Not that I could fess up to the men I'd laid with right now. Something told me Micah would take issue with that.

"I mean, yeah but-" 

Micah cut off my backtracking. "No shame, greenhorn. We all gotta start somewhere," he said it obnoxiously, like a sage elder leading a clueless youth.

The other two's laughter had died down in favor of listening to our exchange, Arthur nursing his beer and Javier kissing along the column of his girl's neck. If my face had been red earlier, it was probably on fire now, embarrassment pricking hotly along with the stitches in my forehead.

"Tell ya what. As a 'welcome to the club' present, I'll buy you a night with- what's your name, girlie?" Micah gestured to the girl in my lap with a fold of money.

"Amber," we said simultaneously.

"Amber. She seems pretty keen on ya." His smile was sickly sweet, like too much sugar poured into tea and ruining it. He slid the bills across the table to her, eyes pinned on us like a panther stalking its prey. 

"I 'preciate the offer, Micah, but I don’t-"

"Oh, go on!" He roared stridently, gripping the redhead sharply by the hip. "You got a cock, use it! Assumin' you do have one?"

Something sharp and icy crept up my spine at his words. No, there's no way in hell he could know. Was there? Or was he just goading me and I was falling into his game?

I leaned forward to snatch the bills before pressing them into Amber's small hands, already frantically rehearsing what I was going to say to her in my mind. Tittering, she stood up and led me by the hand to the rooms not ten feet away from our table, Micah and Javier's catcalling following us until the door shut with a click. Amber led me over to the double bed in the center of the room, giving my shaking hands a squeeze as she sat daintily on the edge.

"Ma'am uh, I should tell you-" 

"That you're a woman?"

Shocked silence permeated the room as her pretty green eyes shone wickedly up at me.

"How, I mean, what-" I cut myself off, scrubbing the intact side of my face roughly. "'s it that obvious?"

"No. But men tend to see what they want to see, especially where women are concerned." She said it simply, no malice in her voice. "You're not the first woman I've met doing this song and dance, sweetheart. Besides, I've sat on a lot of laps over the years. It's pretty noticeable when there isn't a cock poking me." A smirk curved her painted lips.

We both snickered at that, my hand coming up to brush the curls back from her forehead, fingers itching for a distraction. The knot in my chest all but disappeared as I really _looked_ at Amber, the quiet intelligence lurking behind her eyes.

"Your hair looks pretty like this," I whispered, emboldened by the liquor or painkillers or maybe the high of just being alive after today, probably a combination of them all. "I mean, the braids looked nice too last week, but this-" I wrapped a strand around my finger, "is lovely."

Amber smiled sweetly and I decided that I loved how it looked on her, emerald eyes crinkled around the corners.

"You know, I _am_ all booked up for the next couple hours," she whispered teasingly. "And your buddies are right. over. there." Each word was punctuated with her slim fingers flicking open the buttons of my loose shirt to reveal my undershirts, which now felt positively suffocating.

"Wanna give 'em a show?"

Arousal pooling low in my belly, I swooped down to capture her lips in a heated kiss. God, it'd been too long since I'd touched another person like this, kissed them, held them. Her lips tasted like whiskey and cheap cigars and something sweet, fruity. Whining low in my throat, I tilted Amber's head back to keep the kiss going as I straddled her slim thighs. She gasped delicately when I reached down to thumb at a pebbled nipple through the soft fabric of her dress, whimpering as I moved to suck at her neck. Doing so made my forehead knock against her temple and I drew back with a hiss, using the sleeve of my discarded shirt to dab away a bead of blood.

The action seemed to make Amber gather herself and she gently shoved me off her, turning to swap our positions and lay me flat on the bed.

"I'm the one getting paid, remember?" She tsked, reaching to undo the laced front of her dress as I slipped a hand beneath her skirts. Finding her center quickly, I dipped two fingers into her wet heat just to hear the pretty moan she made. 

"That feel good, sweetheart?" I asked roughly, lust thumping through my veins and throbbing in my core.

Fuck I wanted her to touch me so much I was aching with it, grinding against the leg she had between mine like a bitch in heat. I threw my head back and moaned loudly, loud enough I’m sure Arthur, Micah, and Javier heard.

“Deepen your voice a bit,” Amber panted from on top of me, her full breasts now spilling out over the dress and bouncing enticingly as she rocked on my hand. 

Black lashes fluttered over her green eyes as I applied gentle pressure to her clit, drawing a high, sweet whine from her lips. Reaching up, I brought her down to lean over me so I could lave my tongue over her rosy nipples, a flush covering her chest as she ground down hard on my trapped hand. Soft whimpers fell past her lips with every pass of my thumb on her clit and she leaned further down to nip at a tender spot right beneath my ear, making me hump desperately against her leg as a pathetic cry rumbled in my chest when the friction wasn’t enough.

“You sure you never been with a woman, baby doll? Because you sure know what you’re doing.”

“I- I’m used to lyin’ about it,” I gasped. “God, please, just fuckin’ _touch me_.”

Hips rolling down one last time, Amber stood and stripped fully out of her dress, curls swinging loosely around her tiny waist. The flush on her heaving chest had spread down to her creamy pale stomach, the crux of her thighs slick and sticky. She made short work of my clothes, efficiently stripping my jeans, underclothes, socks, and boots in one go before peeling off my constricting undershirts. Her thin little hands covered my breasts, squeezing deliciously and rolling my nipples under her palms while her lips trailed fire over my stomach to ghost over my pussy, clenching around nothing. Blowing a cool breath over my wetness, Amber simultaneously slipped three fingers into me and began suckling lightly on my clit; my teeth in my wrist was the only thing that kept me from shouting as my back arched off the bed and a low groan leaked out. This woman was gonna kill me where bounty hunters and gangs had failed.

“Oh fuck, please, please, Amber, m’close, let me come, please” I whimpered, body trembling with exhilaration and pleasure and exhaustion. God, I was right there...

A coy smile curled her lips as she suddenly stopped all movement, withdrawing her soaked fingers and ghosting them across my throbbing clit on the way out. The cry that flew unbidden from my mouth was far from dignified, shocked and desperate and needy. Flicking one of my nipples cruelly, she laid out on the bed next to me and smiled cattily.

“Come over here and take it, big boy.”

Her eyes widened with delight when a snarl bubbled from my chest as I pounced to straddle her and hook a leg over my shoulder, grinding my center against hers in a filthy figure eight. Her eyes rolled back as a loud moan finally slipped from her lips, genuine and needy.

“Fuck, Nick, that’s it sugar, give it- ah, ah!” A yelp interrupted her words as I redoubled my efforts, fire coursing through my veins at the way my name sounded on her lips.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” I breathed against Amber’s calf, trembling against my cheek as I reached down to flick across her swollen clit.

The feel of her coming wetly against me and the glazed over look on her face finally flung me over the edge too, face buried against her leg to muffle the high, sharp whimpers I made even as I felt Amber twitching with over stimulation beneath me, cool hands tracing soothingly along my hot skin.

Panting heavily, I all but fell to her side on the bed, curling up to spoon her to my front as our fingers laced together.

“It ok if we jus’ lay here a bit?” I whispered weakly, pressing light, close-mouthed kisses to her flushed neck.

Amber chuckled breathlessly before turning in my arms to brush her lips over mine. “Course not, sugar. You _do_ look like you’ve had a rough day.”

“You have no idea,” I laughed softly against her lips, exhaustion and satisfaction pulling me quickly into darkness.

A loud banging at the door snapped me from sleep to find Amber’s bright eyes glittering in the low candlelight. I didn’t realize I’d fell asleep.

“Time to go, Kelly!” Arthur’s low rumble sounded from the other side of the door, giving another sharp rap for good measure.

“Guess it’s time, sugar,” she sighed against my cheek.

“Guess so,” I groaned reluctantly, stretching and grumbling as joints popped back into place.

We dressed leisurely, Amber adjusting my undershirts and me lacing the bodice of her dress back up. Before fastening my pants, she produced a rolled up pair of socks from seemingly thin air, stuffing and adjusting them in my underclothes until she deemed it situated right, giving my tender center a brush with her finger that made me jump pleasantly. After perching my hat over my mussed hair, she pressed a palm to the new lump in my pants, lips drawn to one side thoughtfully.

“That should do. Won’t hold up to any under the clothes action of course but will fool anyone looking for a cock.”

We laughed softly, our own private joke, as I kissed her forehead before guiding her to the door with a hand on the small of her back.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it, darling. It’s a man’s world and we gotta look out for each other.” Amber gave my hand a final squeeze as she reached for the door handle. “Give me a good slap on the ass on the way out.”

As she emerged from the room I did just that, sending her back out onto the bar floor squealing without a backward glance. Arthur sat in a chair next to the door, a blush creeping across his cheeks that he hid beneath his hat as he stood with a cough.

“You finally ready to go?” he groused. “Others are waitin’ outside.”

Grinning and nodding I fell into step behind him, Amber sending me one last smile as we exited into the chilly night. I dodged Javier and Micah’s good-natured ribbing with vague details and answers, riding beside Arthur back to camp as the two trailed behind us, singing loudly and without rhythm.

Being waved through the treeline surrounding camp by John, we found Hosea and Dutch sitting at a table near the paddock, a game of chess forgotten between them at our arrival. The pair stood and made their way over as we untacked and turned our horses out. They waved away Micah and Javier, who stumbled clumsily to their respective bedrolls for the night.

“How’d you get on?” Hosea’s voice carried on the breeze softly, not disturbing the late-night stillness as he spoke.

“Purdy good,” Arthur’s low drawl rumbled next to me. “Took out a few Del Lobos while we were at it.”

I removed my hat to sling my new rifle over my shoulder, freezing when I heard a low whistle from Dutch, his sharp eyes raking over my face.

“What happened here?” he asked, hand flapping vaguely at my stitches.

Arthur’s drawl somehow got deeper, grittier. “Boy saved my ass, Dutch.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered quickly. My pain medicine had worn off and all I wanted was to curl up in the darkness of my tent, futilely staving off the pounding headache that was coming.

For a second the only sound was the crickets chirping, an owl hooting lowly in the trees.

Hosea stepped forward while Dutch stood staring at me and clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“Then we are beyond thankful, Nick. Arthur here is the closest I’ve ever come to having a son; I’m grateful he had you watching his back.”

A flush crept up my neck.

“Weren’t nothin’, Hosea.” I brushed it off. “If y’all dont mind though, I’m gonna turn in for the night. Stitches are pullin’ something fierce.

Tipping my hat, I slipped away and fell onto my bedroll at last. It might’ve been the most comfortable bedroll in the entirety of West Elizabeth. Sighing deeply and still fully clothed, I settled into sleep almost immediately, dreams of glittering emerald eyes and long black hair running across my mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick is very suspicious and fearful of men, for reasons that will be uncovered as we progress. Man hater might even be applicable in some instances. 
> 
> Y'all ever had campfire percolator coffee? It tastes like ass and is frankly an insult to the good name of coffee.
> 
> The place Nick & Co. go robbing is an actual place in RDR2 called Wickiup and only accessible in the epilogue as John. It's a neat little place that had a lot of unanswered questions, so I played with it a bit
> 
> I am aware that the presence or absence of a penis doesn't make you a man, and you should be too! This is also based in 1899 though, when women couldn't vote and parents were giving their children cocaine for a toothache.
> 
> I can neither confirm nor deny having quoted Oberon Martell in this chapter
> 
> Links for binders:  
> [gc2b](https://%22www.gc2b.co/pages/sizing?utmt1&campaign=1603263580&content=304869669501&keyword=&gclid=Cj0KCQiAgKzwBRCjARIsABBbFuiNbJx3_yYF4YuUYvyllzMY9arF_ZYB-kUuwBC6GGQAKj5rMvJzuVEaAmgPEALw_wcB%22)  
> [TransTape](https://transtape.life/pages/faq)  
> [Shapeshifters](https://www.shapeshifters.co/chest-binders-101)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I really wanted to work on Nick's bonding with the gang since Some Big Shit gonna be going down soon. That being said, I have a question for you: What's something you've always wanted addressed in the game(s) but never has been? I might try to work some of them in for you beauties! Enjoy

The next few weeks passed quietly and without incident. My stitches came out and left puckered, angry red scars that stood out sharply against the pale of my face. My hand was back to functional use and I immediately took advantage of it by practically begging Javier to show me his knife throwing skills. The man was enjoyable to be around, his companionship soothing as cool water on a burn when he laughed without restraint. His chatter filled the space between us easily and took the pressure off of me to find something to say, focusing instead on burying my blades in the target he’d picked at the edge of camp. After several fails and a few cut fingers, his dazzling grin and shoulder pat when I finally managed to strike one home left a spring in my step for the next few days.

I’d been out on a few more jobs, mostly small coach robberies or delivering pilfered goods to a fence near Blackwater. All had gone well though and I hadn’t had to kill anyone since those Del Lobos. A few nights I had woken to the phantom rush of warm blood pouring across my hands, gargling gasps for breath ringing in my ears. I knew they were bad people that did terrible things but it did nothing to ease my tumultuous conscious.

I still kept largely to myself, staying by the outskirts of the fire during evening meals, busy with chores, or practicing my new knife skills. But there was also a quiet acceptance of my presence, the beginnings of my thread being woven into this massive tapestry of an unorthodox family. Miss Grimshaw had scolded me a few days back about my failure to bathe in nearly two weeks. Charles or Lenny would occasionally join me on a large, flat rock I’d found a bit outside camp, velvety moss making it a perfect reading spot. Sometimes the former would bring his harmonica, sad, powerful tunes a perfect backdrop to the stars glittering overhead like holes punched in a tin lantern. Mary-Beth had shyly asked me for a dance one night when Dutch had blared that god awful gramophone, which I turned down politely as I could. She was gorgeous, sweet as a peach and whip smart, but only bad things could come from getting her hopes up. When I wasn’t on my newly assigned guard shift, I was watching within; noting the way Bill was equally quick to laughter and anger, Strauss’ tendency to scurry through camp like a buzzard, pecking at leftovers, how Lenny and Sean pined after Jenny and Karen, who both seemed to enjoy stringing them along, giving a wide berth to Uncle and Reverend Swanson, who more than once managed to drag me between them and force tales of their younger days on me; the stench of morphine on Swanson had almost made me throw up. The hurt and exhaustion in Abigail’s eyes whenever John brushed her or Jack off was difficult to miss and I quietly offered her help where I could, carrying laundry baskets or lunging pails of water where she needed. It was difficult to find Arthur round the campfire at times, seeming to prefer the solitude of his tent as opposed to off-key, whiskey-soaked caterwauling. But the man was rarely in camp anyways, always off on some job or another for days on end. Not that I couldn’t relate. It was nice to be invited in on a rousing chorus of _The Louisville Maid_ as Mac shoved a bottle in my hand, but it was just as pleasant to sit and watch the bright moon hanging in the sky, the only music being the night guard’s distant footsteps or the stomping of hooves. 

Three weeks to the day of the events at Aurora Basin I was waving Micah past the treeline into camp, not that the man took notice. Since that night in Blackwater, he’d barely spoken to me outside of some snide remarks about my inability to grow a beard, for which I was eternally grateful. But today he seemed different, straw-colored mustache twisted in a worrisome grin, eyes sparkling in a mad gleam. From my post I watched him hurriedly hitch Baylock and all but jog to Dutch’s tent, where he stayed until the sun’s first rays were starting to blossom above the trees and Karen came to relieve me. I made my way to the stew pot, scooping a bowl of oatmeal and settling by the fire to warm my chilly feet. Miss Grimshaw had managed to make the coffee before Pearson this morning and I gratefully took a large gulp, the warmth flushing down my throat pleasantly. The harsh bite of winter may have faded but with the spring nights came the lingering chill of snow off the nearby Grizzlies. Off to my right I heard heated voices coming from Dutch’s closed tent, growing louder by the second.

“It ain’t worth the risk, Dutch!” Arthur seemed to be pleading with the man.

“Just admit you’re yella, cowpoke!”

“ _I’m_ thinkin’ ‘about the lives we put in danger when we do this stupid shit! Guess that’s my job nowadays.”

“Along with questioning every one of the boss’s moves, it seems!

“I’m with Arthur on this, Dutch. It’s too risky, too many unknowns we can’t control,” Hosea’s voice broke in between the two’s squabbling.

“Hosea! I’m surprised at you!” Dutch seemed to have the perfect level of hurt in his tone, voice low and wounded. “We’ve pulled riskier jobs with less information before and came out just fine.”

“That was before, Dutch! Before we had twenty people counting on us, when we could pack up and go without a thought! Before-”

But I didn’t stay around to listen about Before, instead draining my coffee and taking my breakfast to beat it to the other side of camp, which happened to be by Pearson’s chuck wagon. The man was organizing canned goods round the side while chuckling heartily at Bill, who was glaring at him with what had at some point been a pheasant clutched between his bloody fingers. Now it was just an ugly lump of meat and feathers. 

“Well how the hell was I supposed to know?!” he crowed belligerently in the face of Pearson’s amusement.

“What’d you do to that poor bird?” I asked, coming up to his side and leaning against the wagon, smiling curiously when Bill’s cheeks darkened and he towered over me with a glare as well. The man scared me a little but only when he reeked of booze and had a gun within reach; so, all the time. Across the way, I vaguely noticed Arthur storming out of Dutch’s tent, flaps billowing dramatically in the breeze as he stomped angrily out of camp and off into the forest.

“Mr. Williamson here was savagely attacked by a pheasant while trying to hunt down some supper for us. Naturally, he pumped it full of buckshot and scared off anything edible this side of the Mississippi,” Pearson supplied, poorly hiding his mirth.

“Now that ain’t what happened!” Bill sputtered indignantly before turning to me. “I was out near Hennigan’s Stead, watchin’ a herd a deer when the damn thing came crashin’ outta the bushes like a bat outta hell! It coulda been a lawman, or-or a cougar, for all I knew!”

That only seemed to make Pearson laugh harder; I at least attempted to hide my cackling behind my bowl as I slurped up the last mouthfuls. Bill’s face somehow got even redder, balding head looking sunburnt around his receding hair.

“I can go huntin’ if we need meat,” I offered, taking the spotlight off Bill before his temper could truly flare. “Ain’t doin’ anything for the rest of the day.”

“That would be very appreciated, Mr. Kelly,” Pearson said, wiping at his eyes as the last chuckle died off. “I’d mentioned our situation to Mr. Smith last night, see if he’d be willing to accompany you.”

Nodding and tipping my hat, I dropped my bowl off by the wash bucket before going to collect my gear. I was excited to try my new bow. My first bow, the one I had learned to shoot with, had been pawned for morphine by Pa, along with most everything else of value. Stroking a finger across the smooth wood, I carried it and my saddle to the hitching post before going to find Charles. He wasn’t in his or Javier’s shared tent, or by the fire, nor on guard duty. When asked, Lenny mentioned he saw him walking through the trees earlier, towards that flat rock we both liked.

Walking silently through the underbrush, a by-product of a lifetime of trying to stay off Pa’s radar, I came to the rock and heard what sounded like hushed, angry voices around the other side of it.

“Damn asshole jus’ gets under my skin,” Arthur’s low, gruff voice reached my ears, the top of his hat just barely visible over the boulder. I crept around the side silently to see who he was talking to. Yeah, I was being nosey. Sue me.

“I know,” an even lower voice agreed soothingly. Charles came into view, leaning casually against the rock with his arms crossed. “He’s dangerous and reckless. I worry about the troubles he’ll bring upon us. But I didn’t tell you to come out here so we could talk about Micah.”

“An’ what _did_ you bring me out here for, Mr. Smith?” A soft smile lit up Arthur’s face, smoothing the creases around his eyes somewhat. He removed his hat and leaned into Charles's space to perch it on top of the rock, effectively caging the larger man in. “Folk might get the wrong idea; big strong man likes a you leadin’ me out here all alone.”

Laughter rumbling low in his chest, Charles grinned widely, a sight I’d not yet been privy to.

“Shut up,” he sighed as he pulled Arthur in by the lapels of his jacket to crash their lips together.

The pair moved together slowly, as though time didn’t exist in this little clearing. Charles hands wrapping around Arthur’s waist to pull their bodies flush together, Arthur’s moving up to tangle in the taller’s windswept hair. When a low moan reached my ears and hands began to wander beneath shirts, I decided to take my leave. There was eavesdropping and then there was just being a pervert.

Slowly, carefully, I crept back the way I’d came and decided to just wait by the hitching posts and brush Fenrir until they finished- uh. Yeah.

I had just started braiding Fen's mane when I felt a gentle tug at my shirt. Looking down with a start I found wide, brown eyes peered up at me curiously from waist level. Oh.

“Hey, Jack. Can I help you with somethin’?”

“Your horse is really pretty. Can I help you braid his hair, Mr. Kelly?”

Nerves crept up my spine like tiny ants. This was the first time I’d really interacted with the boy and it had been a long time since I’d dealt with small children.

“Sure, buddy. An’ you can call me Nick, if you want. This is Fenrir.”

“Hi, Fenrir! That’s a funny name,” Jack giggled, turning to give the Mustang a gentle pat on the side of his chest.

“I can tell you ‘bout his name, if you want. You can sit on his back too, so you can reach his hair.”

“Yeah!” the boy exclaimed excitedly.

It was challenging, explaining Norse mythology to a four-year-old. I kept having to backtrack and explain little details, which took me off on another thread before looping back around to the main story.

“So how did a man have a wolf for a kid?”

“Loki is a god so I don’t think normal rules apply t’ him. He did give birth to an eight-legged horse though so wolf kid is pretty low on the weirdness scale.”

“He _what_?”

By the time I’d managed to work through that particular tale, we’d nearly finished Fen’s mane and Jack couldn’t reach the higher parts near his poll.

“Hey, can I put some flowers in his hair?”

“I think that’d look very nice, Jack.”

I set him down, keeping one ear out for nearby wandering feet and finishing the last braids. Jack came back with an impressive array of flowers, from prairie poppies to lacey yarrow to fiery butterfly weed and pale blue smooth aster. I was carefully handed each bloom and given specific instruction on their placement, corrected when one wasn’t placed to Jack’s liking. After getting the seal of approval, I stood back to admire our work and was stunned at the surprisingly balanced arrangement. Sprays of yarrow took up the better part of Fenrir’s mane, setting a lovely backdrop for splashes of blue and orange against the blue-black of his coat. If I’d been the artistic sort, I would’ve painted it.

Stomping feet through the underbrush alerted me to Charles and Arthur strolling back through the trees, looking as though they’d simply come back from a relaxing morning walk. Biting my tongue to hide a nervous laugh, the two ambled over to us to admire Fenrir.

“D’you do that, Jack? Looks real purdy,” Arthur said sincerely, crouching down to be at eye level with the boy.

“Uncle Arthur!” the boy ran over to him and wrapped both tiny hands around his wrist. “We did! And there was a story about a wolf Fenrir is named after, and a man having an eight-legged horse baby, and-”

“A what now?” Arthur asked, a laugh bubbling between words, as he picked Jack up to cradle on one hip.

“Uncle Nick told me all about it!”

 _Uncle Nick_? I shot Arthur a curious look, who in turn shrugged easily back at me. _Just go with it._

“I’ve got a book with stories like that, Jack, if you wanna read it. Got it when I was ‘bout your age.” I offered. The boy’s smile was blinding as if I had just given him a bucket of chocolate instead of one raggedy book.

Again Arthur smiled, shifting to lift Jack further on his hip. 

“That sounds real nice, Jack. You’ll have to read it to me. Now, hows about we go find your mama ‘fore she gets to lookin’ for you?”

Nodding, Jack slipped down from Arthur’s hold and took off with the boundless energy only children seemed to possess. The man took off after him without hurry, a fond smile cracking his face. Charles made to follow, or at least go into camp, when I stopped him.

“Oh, Mr. Sm- uh, Charles! I have a favor to ask you.”

Charles turned mid-stride and faced me, waiting.

“I offered to go huntin' for Mr. Pearson and I didn’t know if, if maybe you’d wanna join me?”

“Of course,” Charles said easily. “Let me grab my gear and we can head out.”

Ten minutes later found the pair of us headed southwest, between Blackwater and Tall Trees.

“I noticed some moose tracks coming through here a few days ago,” Charles said lowly, the pair of us riding abreast on the wide, empty road. “It’s calving season though so keep your eyes open. Cows won’t think twice about running us down.”

I nodded mutely. Talking had never been my strong suit and Charles gave the impression of not caring for idle chatter, which I could respect immensely. It almost startled me when he broke the quiet.

“You know how to use that bow?” He asked evenly.

I thumbed at the smooth, dark wood lashed to my saddle horn. I’d been itching to really test it out even since buying it.

“I know which end to point an’ shoot with, but I ain’t no crack shot. ‘Sides, you know how new bows are. Bit of a break-in period.” I nodded to the bow tied by his leg.

Charles simply hummed quietly and turned his head downward, following prints in the sunbaked earth. I was suddenly thankful I’d asked him to come along; I was an ok tracker, given the trail was fresh and not days old.

“So. I’ve heard a couple stories between Sean, Lenny, and Bill. How’d you end up here, if I can ask?”

For a minute I feared Charles wouldn’t answer, or just ignore me entirely. He seemed to be contemplating, deciding where to begin as we turned off the main road into rolling hills lands.

“I was up near the Grizzlies about four months ago,” he began softly, eyes on the ground. “I ran across Dutch and John holding up a supply wagon, told them I didn’t care what they were doing so long as they let me be on my way. Dutch did one better and said that if I lent a hand, they'd give me a cut. He was…. decent to me, John too. That’s a rare find when you have a black father and an Indian mother.”

I just nodded mutely, afraid of breaking the spell and making Charles clam up.

“I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen. When Dutch brought me back here, to all these people, I decided I didn't want to be alone anymore. Been with them ever since."

“So you’ve only been with ‘em about four months?” When Charles nodded and squinted at me, I stumbled over myself to clarify. “You just- you seem like you’ve been here for years, way you fit in.” When no reply came, I scrambled for something else to say.

"What, uh, what about your family?"

The man stiffened almost imperceptibly, hands tightening on the reins and back straightening a touch.

"My mother was taken by soldiers when I was real young. I can guess what happened to her but I don't know for sure. After that, my father tried drowning himself in alcohol to deal with losing her. Drink had a mean hold on him."

A hot puff of breath blew out my nose.

"I can understand that." 

Charles merely stared at me with a cocked eyebrow, waiting for a follow-up. In the space between words, a scarlet Tanager zipped through the trees, throaty warble a rapid-fire call and response. Well shit. But the man had given me some of his stories, it was only fair that I do the same.

"'Bout a year ago my sister died in a freak accident. She was nine years younger than me but I loved her so, so much. We was best friends," emotion began to clog my voice and I reached down to thumb at my bracelets. "I actually think-" digging into a saddlebag, I pulled out my worn notebook, rifling through pages filled with disjointed scribbles of information or pressed flowers. I fished a picture from between them and leaned over to hand it to Charles, who held it delicate as glass. I'd never been particularly fond of it before, well, before, but I treasured it now. It was a head shot and I'd braided my hair tightly down my back, invisible to the camera. In the face of Rachel's cascading locks and thick lashes, I looked like a baby-faced little boy. Charles studied it for a minute before quirking an eyebrow curiously.

"This- is your sister?" 

I smiled wanly, so used to the uncertainty, the sight the pair of us made: the raven-haired, warm-skinned girl and the ghostly pale blonde.

"Half sister. Our Ma was an immigrant from Ireland, never met my father. Her Pa was an Indian man, Lakota I think? I didn't pay much attention to anything the fucker said. Ran a type of halfway house for freedmen, Natives, immigrants like us, criminals, anyone seeking shelter. They just took a fancy to each other 'n one thing led to another." A bitter edge crept into my voice. Beside me, Charles simply waited patiently, still studying the photograph.

"I loved my sister but it was obvious from the moment she was born that I was just a blip on his perfect family. I was useful when needed, irritatin' and in the way when I weren't. When she died, Ma started dyin' too. She was there but not really, if that makes sense? She just kinda…… faded. Died a couple months back ‘n Pa was hell-bent on overdosin' his way into the grave with her. Got his wish not too long ago. After I buried him, I took what little I had," I patted Fenrir's neck, sun-warm and still adorned with flowers, "and left. Rest y'all know."

"Why didn't you leave before?"

I didn't answer straight away. There were ten thousand reasons I didn't pack up and leave when I was fifteen or sixteen. Most of them could probably be summed up with-

"I was a coward," fell easily past my lips after years of holding it in. I'd always known it, way deep down in a part of my mind I usually ignored. "Weren’t really sure where I’d go or what I’d do. And I was afraid to leave her alone with them." _Afraid that she’d become the punching bag in my place_.

Charles seemed to chew on my words, humming in that way I was learning meant he had a lot to say but wasn't quite ready to speak yet.

"Let's leave the horses here, these tracks only look a few hours old."

Nodding, I stopped Fenrir by Taima before slipping off to grab my bow and tuck my hat in a saddlebag for the hunt. Charles was already pouring over our trail, broad shoulders hunched in as he studied the dirt.

"What're you lookin' at?" I kept my voice low and even. 

"Looks like there's a bull nearby, maybe a cow and calf. Stay alert."

Nodding, I ducked down to crouch beside him in a steady, silent prowl. When we stopped at a patch of dirt as indistinguishable to me from the ten thousand other trampled dirt patches in the area, Charles frowned at the offending spot.

“The tracks are too overlapped to make out anything but let’s stay this way.”

We carefully made our way downhill, trees thinning into a wide clearing curved around a little creek. A large hand suddenly whipped out to slap across my chest and halt my path; flinching back, I looked to find Charles nodding across the way. A magnificent cow stood proudly at the water's edge, massive head on a swivel as a tiny calf teetered on unsteady legs beside her, drinking clumsily.

"Wow," I breathed. I'd never actually seen a moose in person, didn't realize their sheer enormity.

Charles nodded at my side before whispering, “Beautiful, aren’t they? A single bull would be enough to feed the camp for weeks.” 

As he spoke, he sank fully to the ground, apparently content to observe the cow and calf for the moment. Joining him, I kept my eyes on the pair across the clearing. The calf’s stick thin legs were splayed out almost comically, too long for his short little neck, giant ears flicking in every direction. For a while we simply existed, observing the pair with no intention of disturbing or harm. Mid-morning sun warmed my skin pleasantly as birds twittered out of sight, the gentle burbling of the creek occasionally filtering into my hearing.

“I don’t think you’re a coward.”

Whipping my head fast enough something in my neck cracked, I found Charles still resolutely gazing at the moose, legs crossed and fingers twirling an arrow between them.

“What?” He turned to look at me then, warm eyes shining in the sun.

“Don’t think a coward would’ve stayed to shield a sibling or do what you did for Arthur.”

I raised an eyebrow until Charles ran a thick finger against his temple and cheek. Doing so made me notice his own scar, splintered lightning climbing over his jaw and interrupting his stubble. I snorted quietly, mindful of our unsuspecting entertainment.

“Weren’t nothin’. Sides, think we can both agree his face is too pretty to ruin.” 

Wait. Fuck. Did I say that out loud? My mind was tripping over itself for words when Charles spoke.

“I know you saw us, by that flat rock,” he said evenly, shoulders relaxed but fingers drumming across one thigh. “”M not quite as oblivious as Arthur can be sometimes. You are pretty quiet but tracks don’t lie.”

“I- I mean, I wasn’t tryin’ to-”

I sighed, reaching up to thumb at the tender new skin along my brow while Charles sat patiently, waiting.

“I weren’t tryin’ to spy on you. And I ain’t gonna out you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know what it’s like, always lookin’ over your shoulder, afraid to just _be_ with someone you love.” My cheeks burned even as I said it. I’d never spoken the things I felt into the air, kept them trapped in my lungs for stolen kisses and shaky, nervous fumbling back lit by the pale moon. It was freeing in a way, terrifying too.

Across the clearing, the cow and calf had taken their leave. In their place a flock of wild turkeys appeared, their soft clucking overlapping with the creek flowing.

“Thank you,” Charles said simply. “I know we don’t know each other well but honesty is something I value greatly in a person. I don’t-”

A rustle of brush interrupted his next words. The breath froze in our lungs as a massive bull moose came lumbering into the clearing, heavy hooves sending the turkeys squawking out of its way. Charles rolled silently to stand and gestured for me to do the same, arrow nocked and ready. I raised my own and pulled the string taut, zeroed in on its heart.

Charles leaned even closer to murmur in my ear, voice barely a whisper on the wind as a gentle pressure lifted my elbow.

“Keep your forearm in line with the ground.” A heavy boot thumped against my left leg. “Open your stance a bit.” Lowering my bow, I shuffled my feet before redrawing.

“Perfect,” Charles breathed. He drew his own bow, movement smooth and practiced as inhaling. “On my mark.”

“Now.”

The twanging string fluttered across my cheek as two arrows flew to strike true, lodging in the bull’s rib cage. It jerked and brayed loudly before collapsing on the ground heavily, scaring the last of the turkeys away. I grinned widely at Charles, finding a small, approving curl of his mouth looking back. Whistling for the horses, we began skinning, gutting, and quartering the animal. Even with two sets of hands it took a few hours, neither of us speaking much beyond giving direction or asking for help. Finally, with the meat split between both horses and a beautiful, massive hide rolled tight on Fenrir’s back, we began the return trek with the steadily sinking sun. With it at our backs the land was awash in blinding light, beams swirling in the dust kicked up by the horses.

“Mr. Pearson should be pleased,” I offered, the turn off to camp not far ahead.

“For now,” Charles snorted. “But today went well. Quick, clean kill, not to mention you’re a much better student than Arthur.”

A blush crept up my neck as I ducked to pick at my fingernails still stained pink from the moose’s blood.

“Thank you.”

Charles simply nodded as we entered the trees. Waving at Lenny, we came to a stop at the hitches before dismounting. Before unpacking our haul, Charles came around to tower in front of me, hand extended.

“I would ride with you again, Nick.” His grip was warm and firm, swallowing my hand in his.

“As would I,” I nodded, warmth fluttering through my chest.

The pile of wax wrapped meat the pair of us laid on Pearson’s table put a sparkle in his beady eyes. He boomed his thanks at our retreating backs as the smell of food lured us to the crowded fire, Charles branching off to drop the hide at his tent with promises of making something nice from it. Quietly, I tucked in between Hosea and Tilly as everyone laughed merrily at John’s secondhand rehashing of Bill’s pheasant encounter. Stew warmed my belly pleasantly as the sun fully slipped below the horizon and with it people began departing to bed, watch duty, or their own little pairings to chatter softly in the background of my hearing. Across from me, Javier sat strumming his guitar, beautiful notes and lilting Spanish lyrics weaving through the air to lull me into sleep.

Three weeks later I would find a beautiful pair of gloves tucked just inside my tent flap, dark, soft leather smelling richly of tobacco and sage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if y'all can tell, but Charles is bae. Don't get me wrong, I love Arthur sooooo much but I need a RDR3 just about Charles. Also. I reeeally do think all the time about how much cool shit the gang knows how to do. I've been hunting plenty but I'm not confident enough with a bow or my hunting abilities to do them together. Throwing knives looks sick as hell and I'd love to do that just for the cool factor

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [starlightssam](https://starlightssam.tumblr.com/)


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